


Reach for the Moon

by Emery



Series: Indigo Children [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Music, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Erotic Dreams, Fruitless Masturbation, Local Music Scene, M/M, Masturbation, Music Creation, Musicians, Paranormal, Performance Art, Sexual Confusion, Slow Build, Social Anxiety, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein is a wannabe musician fresh out of high school and looking to start a new life, and Marco Bodt is the last person he expected to have as a roommate. Marco is a musician in his own right, a talented singer looking for new opportunties, but there’s something about him and his hidden stash of candles and Ouija boards that makes Jean inwardly squirm. As the ill-matched pair grows more intimate than either of them anticipated, Jean begins to suspect that something is amiss, and Marco is the only one who truly holds the key to the mysteries of Jean’s tragic and silenced past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Tumblr](http://emeryylee.tumblr.com) and I'm tracking the tags:
> 
> fic: reach for the moon  
> fic: rftm
> 
> If you fancy Twitter, [I have that](http://twitter.com/emeryylee), too! Tweet at me and let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [vaguelyreferential](http://vaguelyreferential.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this chapter!

When Jean found himself holding an acceptance letter to one of the country’s most respected universities along with a student ID, email address, and dormitory assignment, he could barely hear his own excited breathing for the heavy pounding of the blood in his ears. The sheets of paper crinkled between his trembling hands not unlike the fuzzy static he felt his brain had been reduced to. The school may as well have sent him a new identity, for within that letter were printed the keys to a fresh existence all his own.

He clutched the same envelope to his chest in the cab on the day of move-in. He knew that it was odd the way he clung so tightly to it, only a material object and not even a valuable one at that, but never before had his ability to latch so compulsively and obsessively onto something been a problem. Besides, the letter was his key to something new and unknown, and the thrill of stepping into a dark space in order to build it up to whatever his imagination was capable of was enough to send his head reeling and his heart on another trip on a runaway train. A large suitcase lie in the trunk of the cab, a smaller one at his side on the well-worn leather of the backseat. A small shoulder bag occupied his lap, making a total of three containers in which he had entirely packaged his being, plus the guitar that he had so reluctantly handed to the cab driver to shove into the trunk alongside the largest suitcase. Everything before this day was to be set aside, because it was this day that a new self would be born. Things would be different, this time around. He swore it.

Jean inhaled as he watched the cab lumber away down the road and he turned to face the front of the building which matched the address of the dormitory to which he had been assigned. The air he drew inside himself tasted different when it caressed the surface of his tongue—cooler and more refreshing as it filled his lungs and propelled him forward with a new vitality. The past was not something he was going to remember, he told himself firmly. He grabbed the handle of a suitcase in each hand, slung his guitar and shoulderbag across his body, and strode confidently through the glass double doors. The building itself was simple but modern, new and clean, just as crisp as Jean felt, and the elevator buttons counted up to six. He pressed his index finger against the one bearing the number four and watched the plastic circle illuminate. Even that small light seemed different than what he was used to—brighter and purer to match the pleasant ring of the elevator as it reached the designated floor.

Tousled, sandy-blond hair bounced at the top of his head with each confident stride of Jean’s muscled legs down the hallway, and he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock away from his forehead before reclaiming the suitcase handle in his fist. The motion came off just as coolly as he had hoped. No more fumbling. No more uncertainty or stupid mistakes. He wouldn’t mess up again, not like he had back then, in high school. Jean was nothing but confidence, now. He didn’t need anyone else to make him happy. He didn’t need anyone’s approval. He was living for himself.

 _Four-oh-nine_. The number rang in Jean’s head as his bright eyes scanned the plaques adorning each door on both sides of the hall. A window at the end of the corridor yielded a view of the remainder of the campus, along with the cerulean blue of the sky peppered with the fluffiest of clouds, and suddenly Jean couldn’t wait to be back outside, exploring and committing the surrounding area to memory until it felt like home and all of his past associations could be swept away with the day’s gentle breeze. And then there was the _studio_. Jean had heard about the facilities at this school and the intensity of the arts and music programs. There was no lack of high-quality coaching from top-notch, successful professionals in the field. His auditions would no doubt qualify him for numerous opportunities to be in bands, to perform at the local hotspots, and to become eligible to compete in tournaments, and the familiar feeling of the guitar in his hands and the smooth resistance of the pick against strings couldn’t possibly come soon enough.

Animated snips of conversations and clamorous voices fought for Jean’s attention as he strode down the hall. Some of the dormitory’s doors were cracked open, offering previews into the eagerness of new roommates to become friends or the chaos of unloading particularly highly-packed moving carts, but the room that mattered the most to Jean sat about halfway down the hall towards the inviting window and the picturesque scene of buildings and foliage below. He was already standing in front of the door before he realized he didn’t yet have a key or an access card, but luckily the door was already propped open, and Jean could hear some amount of shuffling from inside.

Not bothering to knock, he kneed the door open and peeked inside. A small yet comfortable room greeted him, just waiting for him to make the tight space his own. From the door, Jean couldn’t decipher the source of the random noises, but he had to assume that it was his roommate. He was unsure whether or not to announce his presence, but he pulled his suitcases through the door one at a time, struggling to fit the largest through the narrow door frame, and set them side by side in the middle of the room. A bunk bed lay on his right, a desk, shelf, and two chairs on his left. Straight in front of him, a window not dissimilar to the one in the outside hallway lent him a view of the sun as it rose to its destination at the top of the sky.

Beyond the bunk bed came the noises he presumed were his roommate from a door which led to another room, likely a small bathroom. Jean brushed his hand through his hair once again and inhaled through his nose. _It doesn't matter_ , he thought, trying to encourage himself. _It doesn't matter who's through that door. He's not going to affect you. He's not going to change who you are or affect your life here. People don't own you anymore, Jean. You own yourself._

"Yo." The greeting was nonchalant, just as Jean had aimed for. He made sure his posture wasn't straight and that his muscles didn't tense. The noises from the bathroom stopped, but no second person made any move to present himself. Jean's tongue slipped over his chapped lips and he exhaled the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He put one sneakered foot forward, then the other, walking with an unexplained sense of dread around the bunk bed and towards the doorframe. Just as Jean peeked his head around the corner of the room, a boy with a slightly taller figure than his own launched himself through the doorway and almost into Jean. The boy managed to stop his momentum, but not the crimson blush that rose to his cheeks and made the radiant warmth of his face something so tangible that Jean could almost feel himself.

In only a second, Jean knew the kid was weird.

The haircut was perhaps the worst--something like a bowl cut gone horribly wrong, Jean thought. He nearly asked on impulse if he had cut his bangs himself, but realized just in time that he was going for cool and nonchalant, not jerk or bully. Jean knew those types, and like hell he was going to be one of them.

"Hi!"

It took a moment, but eventually, Jean's roommate spoke first. Jean nodded once in reply, lifting his chin as a silent show of acknowledgment.

The other boy's eyes darted from where they had rested on Jean back down to his feet, then across the room to something unknown, then the other side in a frantic circle. "I-I didn't know I would have a roommate. Um, but I don't mind, though!" Quick to correct himself, the boy lifted both hands up, palms towards Jean--an instinctive display of defense. "I'm Marco Bodt. I'm a sophomore, but I just transferred from another university, so sorry if I'm nervous."

Jean forced his lips into a smile, which was hard to do without breaking his facade entirely and laughing his ass off at the goofball of a roommate he had been lucky enough to be paired with. He found it curious, though, that no one had informed Marco of Jean's arrival. The miscommunication was odd, but not necessarily indicative of anything wrong. Jean pushed the thoughts from his head, refusing to let any negativity penetrate what was going to be a perfect start to his new life.

"Jean Kirschstein." He extended his hand. “Freshman—so my first year, too. Guess we'll adjust together."

Marco looked suddenly relieved as he took Jean’s hand in his. All at once his body relaxed, his eyes stopped darting to and fro, and he dropped his hands back to his sides, although he replaced those motions with a new one when he began to rock back on his heels, then forward on the balls of his feet.

It was awkward, not knowing exactly how to continue the conversation. Jean had never exactly been too good with others. He remembered with a twang of bitterness in his heart how outgoing he had once been, but that was so long ago. He had tried too hard, back then, during his short time in that stupid, mediocre excuse for a garage band. He had been naive to ever think that he could be friends with them. Never mind it--all was behind him now, and he had more than thoroughly learned his lesson.

He smiled awkwardly, his lips stretching in one direction in a lopsided smirk. With a quick gesture to his suitcases, still lying in the middle of the room, Jean took a step back and said, "I'm gonna unpack all this shit."

Marco smiled and nodded, a little too enthusiastically in Jean's opinion. A second brief glance over the room yielded a few new discoveries, namely a closet and a chest of drawers.

Just as Jean's eyes lit on the drawers, Marco spoke up from where he still stood in the doorframe of the bathroom. "I took the bottom two drawers, already. I hope that's okay." There was a hint of a blush on his cheeks, though Jean couldn't exactly understand why. There was nothing embarrassing or emotional about a chest of drawers, to his knowledge. "Here I am, spreading all of my stuff out like I’m the only one who’s living here. If you need more space or something, just let me know?"

Jean tried not to wince at the laugh Marco forced out. It was cute, but so unnecessary. Everything about the kid seemed out of place. Then again, Jean hadn't even been living in the United States for the past few years of his life, and he was relatively certain he had picked up a more than slight hint of a European accent from speaking nothing but German and French for so long. He was the outsider, here, far away from his family and without a friend in the world.

The blond forced a breath out his nose--the closest he could force himself to acknowledging Marco's attempt at humor. "No problem. I'll take the top ones. And the closet?"

"Yeah, there're a few things in there. All my stuff is pushed to one side, so the rest is for you." There was that grin again, planted on Marco's face like a foreign insect--something out of place, something that didn't belong but was still fascinating enough that a part of Jean tugged at him to approach his younger roommate and observe the expression up close like an unfamiliar specimen. The boy's eyes gleamed like seaglass, like a bottle that Jean feared he would find himself trapped within if he continued to stare into them for any length of time.

"Thanks," he finally managed. As Marco had said, when Jean slid the door of the small closet to the side, he found the left half bare and empty. On the right were, he presumed, Marco's clothes, an eccentric collection of t-shirts, shorts, and a few pairs of pants. The varied colors of the garments seemed even brighter once Jean laid open his first suitcase and began hanging his own clothing beside the other collection already in the closet. Anyone would have been able to differentiate the exact place on the rack where Marco's belongings stopped and Jean's began--turquoise blues, yellows, and lime greens came to an abrupt halt, swallowed up in the darkness of Jean's largely monochrome yet fashionable wardrobe. He continued the process of unpacking, unfolding, hanging, unpacking, unfolding, hanging until the movements became rhythmic and Jean found himself once again lost in the maze of his thoughts.

Marco's voice interrupted the familiar pattern his arms had adopted, and at the sound of it, Jean let the hoodie he held fall to his side. When he turned his head to investigate Marco's gasp of surprise, Jean found him peering down into the contents of his open suitcase, where a folder of his favorite sheet music and a packet of guitar strings lay neatly amongst Jean's other necessities. The guitar itself was propped up against one rail of the bunk bed in a hard case plastered with various stickers and decals, obviously loved but well-worn.

"You play?"

"Yeah." Jean nodded. "Since I was little. I'm pretty serious about it." It felt uncomfortable to utter such an understatement, but Jean had no desire to scare his roommate with too-early signs of his ambitious behavior. It was hard for those who didn't have aspirations equally as high to understand Jean's obsession, and while Jean would have given most anything to befriend someone who would support and encourage him in his endeavors, the freckled and excitable boy who stood before him certainly didn't seem the type.

The huge eyes which Jean found himself wary of lit up at Jean's answer. "You're joining a band here, then? I’m hoping to, as well!"

Jean blinked his surprise away and relaxed again. He retrieved an unoccupied hanger from the closet rack and let himself fall back into the motions of hanging his clothes. "Cool," he said, turning his back once again.

“No, I mean, this is perfect! I’m joining the performance arts program, here. I sing. I’ve always done solos but I’d love to be in a band, instead—”

“No offense, but I’m not sure you’d dig my kind of music.”

Jean could only imagine the clueless, innocent way Marco would tilt his head, the displeasured shock betrayed between the crease of his neatly-groomed eyebrows. “How do you know? What kind of music is it, anyway?”

Jean shrugged as he hung the last hanger in the closet. Marco stepped aside when Jean approached his suitcase again and then tossed a few of his books onto the mattress of the bottom bunk. “I move a lot in my sleep,” he explained, turning back to Marco but otherwise silently claiming the bed for his own.

“T-that’s all right.”

Could Marco do _anything_ but smile?

“The top is fine with me. Wouldn’t want you to fall off.” He laughed again, although Jean failed to see how the idea of him falling from such a height would be funny in the least.

He put a few more things in their place, tossed some clothes into the top drawers which Marco had left unoccupied, and emptied his small bag of toiletries onto the bathroom sink. It was less than neat, but Jean would deal with it later. If Marco had a problem with it, he would just have to wait.

“We could get a couple of baskets or something, you know, to keep our stuff organized on the sink. It’s a small bathroom, so—”

This guy had an organizational plan for everything. Jean forced a smile. “Yeah, sounds good. I’m—I’m going out.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to point in the vague direction of the room’s front door. “To get a feel for the campus and all, stretch my legs a bit. I had a long plane ride last night.” In reality, Jean was just feeling crowded. He liked Marco, on the whole, and he was certainly better than a ton of the guys Jean had feared he would be forced to room with, but there was something strange about him. He was trying too hard and acting just a little too nervous, Jean thought. There was no way in hell he found Jean intimidating, was there? It was possible he was just socially awkward—Jean was, too, in his own way. “Need anything while I’m gone?”

“No thanks. We can maybe grab some snacks and a lamp and stuff once you’ve gotten some rest. Maybe a corkboard for the wall over there?”

“Yeah,” Jean found himself replying with only half a clue as to what Marco had actually said. “I’ll see ya later.”

His hand was on the doorknob when Marco spoke up one more time. “I heard it might rain later. I don’t know if you were planning on being out long but—”

“Oh. Yeah. I dunno.” Moreso to please Marco than to actually protect himself from the supposedly imminent rain, Jean reached into the closet to tug a black hoodie from one of the hangers. A band name was plastered across the front—one of Jean’s favorites. It was just as the hanger was swaying back into place and Jean was pushing the door closed that the box full of candles and a Ouija board caught his eye.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd

Just as Marco had predicted, the rain started that evening and remained relentless for the next several days. Classes didn't begin until the following week, but the continuous downpour of chilling rain from the overcast skies put more than a damper on Jean's plans to explore the campus. Instead, he spent the majority of the time in his room, shopping for groceries and a few basic room decorations with Marco, and most of all, playing in the music department's studios. The facilities were everything that Jean had hoped for and more, and it was way too easy to lock himself in a soundproof room full of recording equipment for the entire day, his amp turned up as high as his own ears could manage beneath the padded headphones. To have free reign with the kind of equipment available in the studios, along with an entirely private room where he could be alone with his guitar and the music locked away in his brain, was a dream come true--finally the notes he had envisioned wouldn't be left alone in his imagination to rot.

The dining halls weren't bad either, he decided after eating at the same one for several days in a row. The buses were nice, too, which was a relief--the music and performance facilities were on the other side of the campus from Jean and Marco's dorm, and the inclement weather made it too inconvenient to walk.

Jean glanced at the date on his phone's homescreen. His first classes were in two days. His stomach turned, but not because of anxiety or a fear of failure. Jean was _eager_ , ready and willing to show the world who was boss. Across the small bedroom, his textbooks lay in a perfect row on one shelf above the desk, accompanied by notebooks and paper and pens so new that Jean hadn't even opened the package. Marco's own collection of supplies was right above his own. It was too bad there was only one desk, but Jean had never liked the formality of sitting at a desk chair, anyway. When it came to composition, he did his best work curled up in his bed, clad in sweatpants that hung too low around his waist and showcased his hipbones. He was sure it would be the same for schoolwork. Desks made him feel uptight, like he was constricted. Even during his classes in high school, he had always been the one to cross his legs in his seat or sit with one knee propped up so high that his chin nearly rested on it. He had lost count of how many times he had been reprimanded for that.

"Are you going over to the practice rooms today?"

Marco's voice rang out from the top bunk, where, the last time Jean had seen, he had been lying on his stomach and propped up on his elbows watching something on his laptop.

"Yeah," Jean answered. "Guess I was just waiting for the rain to let up."

A quick peak out from beneath his bunk and towards the window informed him of the droplets still pounding against the window. Jean lost himself for a moment, tracing the streams of water with his eyes as they rushed down the window pane, converging with others into larger rivers and finally discovering their end at the windowsill, where they flushed out into a puddle that hadn't dried for days.

"Oh, it won't be anytime soon."

"How do you know?" Somehow, the arrogance in Marco's voice rubbed Jean the wrong way. Who was he to know with any certainty what the weather would do?

There was a rustle of sheets above him, probably a shrug too nonchalant for Jean's tastes.

"Well, the weather channel for one. And the radar. Also, I just kinda know."

Jean grimaced and rolled his eyes. He wished that Marco could have seen the displeasure on his face. For some reason, he was just peeved enough that he wanted Marco to know it.

"It puts you in a bad mood, huh?" Marco ventured.

Apparently, Jean's silence had spoken for itself. He huffed and crossed his arms, turning himself closer to the wall so that his response was muffled when he snapped, "Wouldn't it anyone?"

The springs of the mattress above him strained under Marco's movement, and there was a snap of plastic against plastic as Jean's roommate shut his laptop. "C'mon," Marco invited. "I'll ride over with you if you want to go. I've got a couple of auditions in a few days. I should practice."

"Nah," Jean said. He waved his hand in dismissal. "I'll catch ya later. I'm not really feeling it right now."

He watched Marco's disappointment from the corner of his eye and almost felt guilty. He hadn't really done anything wrong, Jean supposed, but Marco sure as hell was going to have to learn that there were some days when Jean just needed to be left alone. Some would call him introverted or even antisocial, but the reality was that Jean had grown much too fond of his own loneliness.

"A-all right," Marco said. He slipped his arms through the sleeves of his rain jacket and shoved a folder into his backpack, probably full of sheet music.

"Good luck with your auditions," Jean added. He figured he had come off as abrasive, given the forlorn look in Marco's dark eyes, so the encouragement seemed an appropriate thing to tack on.

The smile lit up Marco's freckled face--Jean's words had obviously taken him by surprise.

Jean retreated back into his bed but heard the door as it open and shut, then the too-loud _click_ of the locking mechanism in the door. Marco was particularly careful, Jean noticed, to always lock the door behind him even when Jean was still in the room. It was an unnecessary precaution, and it almost gave Jean the impression that Marco was watching after him. He had never known anyone quite like his new roommate, but he _did_ know that he didn’t appreciate the notion of being treated like a child, if that was indeed Marco’s intention.

Jean heaved a mighty sigh and stared at the moleskin notebook resting beside him on the bed, beaten and worn and opened to the page he had been scribbling in with pencil. Some half-hearted ideas of lyrics stared him back in the face, but there was nothing on page that _spoke_ to him or would speak to anyone else. There was nothing heartwrenching or earthshatteringly beautiful. There was nothing but Jean's own selfish thoughts and his anger and his pride--disordered triumph and unstable confidence. He bared his teeth, though at what, he didn't know. He had no enemies anymore, but that didn't stop him from creating his own and projecting them onto every possible person and situation. To have any sort of negative feelings towards Marco was ridiculous.

_Lighten up, Jean. He's the best roommate you could have gotten. Stop being an ungrateful little shit and find some happiness in the world for once._

Thunder clamored outside the window.

_Hard to find happiness in that._

The pencil swung back and forth between his forefinger and thumb as his mind raced to create, threatened to vomit its dangerous contents onto the page in a form that Jean didn't want to see. He found himself afraid for what he might write and bit his tongue as if that would keep his inner thoughts from speaking. He needed something, but he didn't know what.

He should have gone with Marco.

Jean threw the comforter off of himself and thrashed his legs until they were disentangled enough from the sheets to swing over the side of the bed. He viciously pulled on a pair of jeans a size too small and shoved his socked feet into a well-worn pair of hightop canvas sneakers. One of his hoodies, not a raincoat, would suffice, he thought as he dropped his notebook and pencil into the his guitar case, latched it shut, and slung it over his shoulder. He wouldn't be needing anything else. Not today.

By the time Jean walked past the bus stop, he was already drenched. The rain poured on him from high above like the blessings he never seemed to have received. His name was Jean, wasn't it? If it meant "blessed by God," then where were his blessings? It seemed like God had skipped out on him somewhere along the line.

The rain refused to stop its vicious assualt, but Jean did nothing to retaliate save for flipping his hood atop his messy mop of hair. He was sick of yielding to the whims of others. He would be his own person--it didn't matter what happened around him, rain included. Jean was Jean, and he listened to Jean and did what Jean said to do. There was no person or thing that would tell him otherwise, this goddamned rain included. He popped a pair of earbuds into his ears and slid and tapped his thumb across the screen of his phone until his mind was filled with the kind of music he wanted to consume him. It was a half-hour walk to the music buildings, and Jean couldn't wait to lift a giant middle finger to the rain and the rest of the world all the way there.

The wetness soaked through the denim of his jeans and then through his skin, chilling him to the bone and weighing his sneakers down with every uncomfortable squish of his saturated socks. He could feel the puddle accumulating atop his head, gathering in a fold of his hood and settling there, like he needed another reminder of the weather's assault on him. Cold rain droplets slid steadily from the tip of his reddened nose, but Jean would not bow his head.

It was liberating, in a way, to allow himself complete exposure. Hell, he wished he had done it earlier in the week.

He must have looked a sopping mess when he finally emerged from the ocean that the outdoors had made itself and pushed himself through the double glass doors of the performance studio building. A few other students taking shelter in the lobby looked on him with a mixture of pity and disgust. "How stupid do you have to be to walk all the way here in the rain without an umbrella or a proper coat?" Jean could hear their screaming thoughts.

He didn't care.

Most of the studios were full already, just as they had been all week while students fought to seek shelter from the outdoors. The next to last room from the back was open, though, to Jean's delight, but before he let himself settle in to release his pent-up frustration, the sight of Marco in the neighboring room caught his attention in the corner of his eye. Through the large, glass window Jean could see him, standing with back straight and lifting his chin so that he stood proudly at his full height, his lips pressed close to the microphone poised in front of him and seemingly lost in his own performance as it fed back to him through his headphones. The door wasn't closed all the way--Marco had left it carelessly cracked, if Jean had to guess. Jean knew he should have just retreated to his room and ignored his roommate. He didn't want to be a distraction, and facing another human being while his mind was as jumbled and belligerent as its current state was far from a good idea, but Jean couldn't help himself from edging closer and hoping that Marco wouldn't notice him out of his own peripheral vision.

Through the crack in the door, the sound traveled, and for the first time, Jean found himself lost in the rapture of Marco's surprisingly beautiful voice. The words he sang weren't familiar to Jean--as he had expected, Marco was used to performing music entirely different from Jean's own style and interests. His unfamiliarity with the music didn't diminish its beauty, though, and Jean found himself entranced by the passion and the emotion Marco summoned forth in his voice with such ease. Jean typically wasn’t one to enjoy solo performances, and much preferred the organized chaos of a rock song, the loud, invasive notes of a singer pouring his heart out to the tune of an intricate guitar riff, but Marco’s gentler style had its own beauty and power that appealed to a part of Jean he wasn’t used to nurturing.

All at once, the world of Marco’s voice that Jean had lost himself in disappeared. Jean watched with horror as Marco turned his head before Jean could manage to disappear across the hall into his own room—it was painfully obvious that Jean had been watching, but Marco’s mouth stretched into a delighted smile. His hand lifted with too much enthusiasm when he pulled the headphones from his ears, and he half-hopped, half-skipped to the door.

“Jean!”

Jean watched the look on Marco’s face turn from eagerness to concern in less than a second.

“What in the world—You’re _soaked_! Jean, didn’t you take the bus?”

Jean shrugged, unconscious of the water still dripping from his clothes into a puddle around his feet. “Nah. Didn’t feel like waiting.” What a simplistic answer, nothing but an outright lie.

Marco’s eyebrows drew together, trapping worry between the crease in his forehead. “Five minutes in this air conditioning and you’ll be absolutely frozen. Then you’ll catch a cold, and it’ll still be raining tomorrow when you have to walk to class—” When Marco took a few steps towards him, Jean didn’t know what to expect or how to respond, so he stayed planted where he was, guitar still slung across his shoulder and water still dripping from his hair. In a startling invasion of personal space, Marco took two handfuls of the bottom hem of Jean’s hoodie in his hands and tugged upwards—a sign for Jean to rid himself of his saturated attire. “I’ve got a dry coat in the room. Wear that instead while this dries?”

Jean shook his head slowly at first, then faster when he managed to pull himself away—too quickly, he realized in retrospect. And there was that look on Marco’s face again—a pathetic combination of confusion and hurt.

“I’m fine,” Jean snapped, then caught himself. “I’m fine,” he repeated in a calmer tone. “I’m sorry. But it’s fine. You don’t have to do anything.”

What was _with_ this guy?

Marco swallowed hard and nodded. Jean wondered if his cheeks were as pink as his roommate’s were becoming.

“So,” Jean ventured, eager to change the subject. “You’re really good, you know? I didn’t mean to listen, but I was just passing by and noticed—”

“Thanks!” Marco’s eyes lit up again, so Jean guessed that all previous feelings of awkwardness had been forgotten. “I have a bit of work to do yet, but I should be fine for the auditions.”

Jean allowed his face to contort to an expression he hoped was kind, but it was hard to tell whether or not his efforts at friendliness made him look like an idiot.

“Sometimes when I practice alone, even if I’m just staring at a wall or an auditorium of empty seat, it feels like there’s still someone there, you know? Like I’m performing for an audience who’s always needed to hear this music but never quite got the chance to come and listen in person. It’s nice. It feels like I’m helping them, somehow.”

Jean listened to Marco ramble. His train of thought was beguiling, if not somewhat enamoring, Jean thought. He had never heard of anyone but Marco describe singing or playing that way. Without a doubt, Marco’s words were odd, but inspiring nonetheless, and while Jean found Marco’s thoughts to be a little wild, he couldn’t help but admire the heart behind them. Jean could appreciate an odd and unexplainable passion for music better than most. Actually, it was somewhat encouraging to know that Marco’s passion was nearly as eccentric as Jean’s goals were ambitious.

Finally, Jean forced his usual half-cocked smile, although this time he found it easier to lift the corner of his lip, relieved to have a roommate who shared his obsession and who wasn’t a talentless poser. “That’s cool, man.” The compliment was weak, and Jean knew it, but it was better than anything else he had offered for the past few days. He threw his thumb over his shoulder back towards the studio across the hall. “I’m gonna get to it.”

“Dinner first, maybe?” The hopefulness in Marco’s voice made Jean want to agree, but his desire to avoid the rain’s onslaught again won out, and he shook his head.

“Tomorrow.”

That one word was Jean’s key to retreat, where he watched Marco gather his belongings through the windows of their respective practice rooms, then leave down the hall with a final wave and grin in Jean’s direction. How did Jean’s attitude never bring him down? Jean thought back to their first day together and how Marco’s smile had never seemed to falter, not even once. He wished it was that easy for him to maintain happiness. Maybe after a few more months at this university, after separating himself from his past, Jean’s spirits would lift. He didn’t know what he wanted to play that day, but his fingers drifted over the strings of his guitar with some semblance of mysterious purpose. Words came to Jean’s mouth he had never imagined to create lines unfamiliar to him. Some, he scribbled in his notebook before picking up his instrument again, and the process repeated. He had no direction, Jean realized—none at all—and every letter he added to those pages reeked of despondency. Sure, he wrote from the heart, but the same darkness that inwardly consumed him made its way to the pages before him and pierced into Jean’s soul in a neverending cycle.

The sun had already set when Jean finally pushed through the doors and back into the spitting rain. He wrapped his arms around himself as tightly as he could manage and cursed his stubborness, because a rain jacket would have been damn useful. Marco was probably right—he would be horribly sick in the morning after walking through this rain twice in one day. He hadn’t even had the foresight to remember that the buses stopped running late. Jean could only imagine how Marco must have been worrying. He was the anxious type, no doubt, and a quick glance at his cell phone only confirmed Jean’s suspicion. A series of short texts waited for him, letting him know not to get dinner because Marco had brought home a to-go box from the dining hall and that, if Jean got home after Marco had already gone to sleep, it was on the bottom shelf of the mini-fridge with a bottle of Dr. Pepper. How did Marco know that was his favorite? Jean dismissed the question as coincidence and shook the thought from his head, but the idea of food waiting for him, even if only dining hall food, reminded him of how hungry he was. He had forgotten to eat again—Jean would be careful to never let Marco in on that bad habit of his. He couldn’t have his roommate worrying anymore than he already did, nor did he want a freckled solo performer to be shoving food down his throat at every turn.

It was none too soon when the outline of Jean’s dorm appeared in the distance, and he picked up his pace so that the smacking sound of his sneakers against the puddles no longer provided any distinction between one step to the next. Out of curiosity, he glanced up to his floor and the window he knew belonged to his and Marco’s room. At first, the lights seemed to be off, but it wasn’t so late that Marco would already be asleep. Taking a few steps back, Jean cocked his head to the side to try and catch that glimmer one more time—something had made itself known in the corner of his eye and caught Jean’s attention even in the chilling rain. A dull light flickered in the window, painting the glass’s reflection with a brief occasional sheen like a tiny fire. Jean assumed it was an odd trick of the rain and the nearby streetlamp, but multiple glimmers appeared in the same spot and danced, unashamed, in Jean’s vision. As suddenly as the ghosts of light had caught Jean’s attention, they disappeared again, overcome by a darkness that seemed to rise in the vague shape of a person and usher the tiny flames away. _Marco_?

Jean’s sneakers squeaked against the tile floor of the dormitory’s lobby, and again on every step of the stairway. His thoughts led him to the box he had seen in the closet on their first day together, but never again afterward. The glimmers in the window could have been candles, but how had they all been extinguished so rapidly? What the hell was Marco _doing_?

When he unlocked the door to their room—of course Marco had diligently locked it—Jean sniffed the air carefully for any smell of lingering smoke, but there was nothing but the cotton fresh air freshener one of them had stuck near the closet. Marco’s head peeked out from the bathroom, his hair wet and a towel in hand.

“Hey Jean! Food for you in the fridge!”

What the hell had Jean seen?

All night he wondered, pushed it from his thoughts, then wondered again as the curiosity continued to return to him like an insistent virus of his brain.

The next morning, the rain had stopped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet a lot of you thought I had abandoned this fic, huh? I've been wrestling with major plot remodeling and making lots and lots of changes (for the better, I promise!), but now that I'm (mostly) satisfied with everything, I'm ready to start updating on a regular basis again.
> 
> I hope you'll all enjoy what I have in store and, as always, thank you for reading!

A handful of fliers fluttered down into Jean’s vision and covered the pages of his Moleskine notebook. “Picked these up for you, just in case.”

Marco’s voice startled Jean from the world he had retreated to, and he abruptly returned to reality with the chewed nub of a pencil’s eraser between his teeth.

“You mentioned you wanted to find some gigs, right? There are some app forms in there, names and contact numbers, that kind of thing.”

Jean breathed in deeply through his nose and stretched his legs out. The loose fabric of his sweatpants rode up with the motion and bunched around his knees while bare toes wiggled to return their feeling and blood flow. Jean’s laptop sat beside him on the bed with the screen up, but the display had gone dark and the operating system slipped into hibernation long ago.

“What time is it?” Jean asked as he leafed through the pages in his fingers.

Marco disappeared, but the movement of the mattress above him reminded Jean that he wasn’t far—only on the top bunk. “Around six,” he called down. “You keep putting off dinner with me. Want to go?”

Jean had to give in eventually—he could only pretend to be busy for so long before Marco would catch the hint. He seemed naive, for certain, but not stupid. “Yeah. Later though. You didn’t have to get these, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wanted to.”

Jean relished the silence, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and tried to calm his thoughts as he read over the information Marco had brought him. Words like _downtempo_ , _chill_ , and _country_ wrinkled Jean’s nose—of course Marco had only visited the small, local bars which were looking for anything but excitement when it came to hiring musicians to fill their spots. Sure, he had meant well, but Jean couldn’t work with this. Was the closet full of rock and metal band t-shirts not enough of a hint? Hadn’t they already glanced through each other’s sheet music? Their tastes were very different, to be sure, but surely Marco understood that Jean stuck closely to his preferred genre of music.

“Actually—”

Closing his eyes and inwardly gathering himself, Jean let the papers fall to his lap and waited for Marco’s continuation. His first day of classes had been rough, and he had already been forced to be close to people more than he would prefer to be on any given day. Jean valued his space, his privacy, and the quietude that came with both. He had no idea how the hell he was going to make it through dinner with Marco, much less idle dorm chatter.

“Well, I know that music isn’t your style,” Marco continued, and Jean had to stop himself from murmuring, “Damn right.” “But there aren’t a lot of loud performance bars here. Just one downtown, and they’re so popular they’re already booked until Christmas. Besides, it’s best to start small, you know?”

 _Start small and work your way up_. Jean had heard that philosophy all his life, but he certainly couldn’t say that he was a fan of it. It was logical enough, he supposed, but it wasn’t fast and it wasn’t satisfying, and it was no way for Jean to start with a bang.

“I know it may not be what you really want to do, but I’m more familiar with that vein of performance. The first couple of times, we could play together, maybe?”

Jean narrowed his eyes. Perhaps Marco wasn’t as selfless as he had been led to believe.

He forced himself to rise from the bed, pushing off of the corner of the wall where he had built up a nest of pillows and blankets to lean against when he worked. The dorm room was small, so it only took a couple of strides to reach the mini fridge below the desk and beside the drawers. Jean popped open a can of soda and tossed it back, savored the refreshing bite of carbonation as it slid down his throat, and threw a casual glance in Marco’s direction. He had his own set of fliers beside him on the bed, or so it appeared, and began to peck away at his keyboard with a look of steeled concentration drawing his eyebrows together. The way he rolled his lower lip between his teeth told Jean that he was nervous—it had probably taken a lot out of him to propose what he had.

It was hard to say no to Marco, but the idea of working closely in a creative project with another person made his stomach turn. “Collaboration’s not really my thing.”

Marco’s voice sounded flat, emotionless in an effort to hide his disappointment. “I thought you wanted to join a band,” he pointed out.

“A band is different from some sort of jazz duet. I mean a rock band. Something loud, something fast.”

Jean pursed his lips and took another sip of his drink because he didn’t know what else to do.

“I had a couple of songs picked out—acoustic versions of stuff you probably like.”

“Oh yeah?”

A few clicks from Marco’s keypad later, and a familiar guitar melody was playing through the speakers. The sound quality was only mediocre, but Jean immediately recognized the melody as an acoustic cover of one of his favorite songs.

“’Numb’? How did you know I like Linkin Park?”

Marco shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

“Their old stuff?”

“Who doesn’t like _Meteora_? Besides, you wear that hoodie all the time—it’s from one of their older tours, right?”

Jean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "I had no idea you liked any of the same shit I did.”

Already, Jean was listening carefully to the guitar from the audio clip, critiquing the creative license the musician had taken with the original song and planning his own, much more appropriate interpretations. It had been awhile since he had picked up an acoustic guitar, but this was something that he could see himself playing.

“I hate to say this, but I really think I could sing a little better than this guy, honestly,” Marco mused.

Jean chuckled. “You totally could. I’ve heard you—you’re way better than this.”

When Jean met Marco’s gaze, his cheeks and ears darkened to crimson, and he immediately tapped his keypad so that the music stopped.

“What?” Jean asked. “Afraid of a little compliment?”

Marco’s bangs shook to and fro with the quick shake of his head. “No, it’s not that.” Jean heard a few more clicks of the keyboard and keypad as he crouched down to stick his half-finished can of soda in the refrigerator.

“So,” the sophomore ventured, “I’ll take it that you’ll at least consider?”

For the first time since Jean could remember, he felt as if he might have a shot at having a real companion—not some poser or shallow bastard who only _pretended_ to understand how Jean felt. Marco noticed things about him, like his sweatshirts and his favorite soda, and he always took showers in the morning because Jean liked to take them at night, and it didn’t take long for the hot water to run out. Jean couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared about the little things. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cared about him at all.

“Dinner?” he prompted, even as the more pessimistic side of him screamed hollow fears into his brain so loudly that not a single dark recess went unaffected. Each and every corner of Jean’s mind remained drenched in the fear that Marco would be like the others.

 _It’s obvious that he’s fucking using you. There’s something off about him and you know it. No_ normal _person would be so goddamn obsessed with you, Jean. It’s not like you’re worth noticing._

Jean noticed Marco grin at something on his screen—the kind of smile that tugs on the lips of someone who has just succeeded or made great progress in some sort of master plan.

“It’s just dinner, Marco,” Jean reminded him, but his roommate only shook his head.

“Nah, it’s not that. I just—never mind. I was worried about something is all, but it’s not a problem anymore.”

Jean watched Marco climb down from the top bunk and almost felt guilty for having claimed the bottom mattress so abruptly. Marco wasn’t the most adept when it came to relocating himself from the step ladder to the carpet below. He wobbled a little on the first step, enough that Jean nearly reached out for him should he lose his balance. Instead, he turned promptly to the closet to fetch a simple collared shirt—on a whim, he chose a green and blue plaid—which he slipped over the graphic tee that clung tightly to his thin frame.

“So,” Marco ventured as they ambled towards the nearest dining hall. “How was your first day?”

His hands in his pockets, Jean shrugged and kept his eyes towards the ground. “Okay, I guess. A bunch of lecture halls, lots of awkward introductions and syllabi.”

“Did you _talk_ to anyone?” The question was asked slowly, deliberately, as if Marco was fishing for a particular answer.

It was difficult, but Jean did his best to remain nonchalant. “You’re way too concerned about my social life, man.”

Marco chuckled, a sweet jingle of a sound, and Jean eyed him sideways just to get a glimpse of the way freckles gathered in the dimples of Marco’s cheeks. “It was more a joke than anything. You don’t talk much to me, so I was just wondering.”

“If you must know, I sat in the back corner of every room. I’m in an assload of intro classes, so it’s not like we’re supposed to talk anyway, right? Just lectures and answering questions on those response pads so the profs know who actually gives enough of a shit to go to class.”

A few students lumbered around on the sidewalks outside, most too interested in the music blaring through their earbuds or the touch screens of their cell phones. It was odd, Jean thought, how much more reserved Marco seemed to be in public—almost an entirely different person outside the privacy of their dorm room. In only a matter of minutes, he had transformed from smiling lap-dog to something much more meek, timid, and a hell of a lot like Jean. Hadn’t he just accused Jean of being too reserved a few minutes ago? It could have been anything, Jean supposed. Social anxiety was certainly something he understood, and he wouldn’t pretend to know all of Marco’s insecurities. The way he seemed to retreat into his own little world, gentle eyes staring longingly to the clouds and lighting on everything _but_ Jean made Marco seem more like some sort of whimsical fairy rather than another student and Jean’s roommate.

 _Weird_.

Jean forced himself to remain detached throughout dinner, filling his plate with the usual combination of pizza and macaroni and cheese and bits and pieces of whatever else looked edible on the buffet. It was crowded despite the food being only mediocre (not bad, just not good, Jean decided), but Jean supposed it was because the array of food remained somehow satisfying to a population of college freshmen who weren’t used to eating from an all-you-can-eat buffet for every meal. Unlimited pizza was never necessarily a bad thing.

Plate and drink in hand, Jean wandered the seating area in an effort to find Marco or a free table, whichever came first.

He saw his roommate standing near the dispenser full of soda and Gatorade options, framed on either side by two boys—one significantly taller than Marco, the other one significantly bulkier. Jean gawked, for a moment, not because he meant to but because he couldn’t help but find himself intimidated by these students who could easily have been a basketball player and a wrestler, respectively. They seemed to know Marco, but how?

It was a bad habit, he knew, but Jean decided quickly to avoid the unwanted social excursion. He turned to find a table for himself and for Marco, but he was a moment too late—Marco’s eyes met his, and the larger of the two strangers, a blond, turned to follow Marco’s gaze.

Thus far, Marco had been calm, mellow. Never before had Jean seen a look on his roommate’s face resembling anything like panic, but now the fear seemed to be set in his features like stone. Marco held up a finger, mouthed something along the lines of “just a minute” before returning his attention to the others. Even from across the dining area, Jean could see Marco’s sneakered foot tapping nervously against the tile.

Jean’s brow furrowed with concern.

Something was up, but he willed himself away. Marco could handle himself. Jean, on the other hand, wasn’t so certain about his abilities to converse normally with two boys who, from a distance, reminded him so much of the high school classmates he had despised.

Memories of those days were not things that Jean wanted dredged up from the dark depths of his memory, and so he left Marco on his own. There were plenty of people around to witness any foulplay.

Besides, Jean had to remind himself that, surprisingly, not _everyone_ in the world was out to get him or his friends.

Marco was his friend, he supposed, or something like it.

He still found himself thinking that it was every man for himself in this world, and as much as he hated to be _that_ guy, he found himself making a beeline for the most secluded and hidden table in the dining hall, abandoning Marco to whatever his fate might have been and hoping that he didn’t run back into his roommate until later that evening at their dorm.

 _Fucking selfish_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback is crucial! What do you like? What don't you like? Is there anything you'd like to see? What parts got you excited or curious? 
> 
> I'd love to know! See you next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading all of your theories has been a blast, so thanks much to everyone who has taken the time to comment! I'm glad to know some people are enjoying the progression of the story, and trust me, I'm just as excited as you are.

Jean’s stomach dropped when he heard a voice behind him—not Marco’s, but an unfamiliar baritone that said, “Hey man, mind if we sit?”

Jean blinked. Yes, he fucking minded if they sat. Who was _we_ , anyway? He swallowed his fear (because hell, what choice did he have?) and turned in his seat to face the origin of the voice. Just as he had feared, it was the guys he had seen Marco standing with a few minutes (or was it hours? Time always seemed to drag when Jean was anxious) ago.

“I’m Reiner.”

A beefy hand shoved itself into Jean’s field of vision, presumably waiting for Jean to shake it, but it was all he could manage to keep his jaw from going slack.

“J-Jean,” he offered. It was weak, and he knew it. He was making a fool of himself, but he somehow managed to get his own fingers around the intimidating hand and let his arm be taken along for the ride when Reiner shook it.

“Nice to meetcha.”

“Ah, I know them from high school,” a second voice offered—relief like a gust of fresh air calmed the panic tightening Jean’s chest when he saw Marco behind the two of them, peeking over their shoulders. So Marco hadn’t been killed and left for dead by these two hulking strangers. The color was drained from those freckled cheeks and Jean couldn’t ignore the hint of _something_ in the warm, brown eyes, but Marco was okay. It didn’t matter now that Jean had left him alone.

_Still a fucking detestable coward._

Jean really needed to remember how to breathe.

“This is Bertholdt,” Reiner offered as he took a seat across from Jean and set his plate down on the table. There was no way in hell one man could eat all of that food… “We call him Bert.”

The taller boy offered a shy smile but didn’t lift his eyes to meet Jean or make any other acknowledgement of their introduction, which was perfectly fine with Jean. He would never complain about a lack of social obligation. Hell, he was pretty sure if he had to shake more than one person’s hand an hour, something bad would happen, especially guys like Reiner and Bert. How tall was Bert, anyway? And Reiner _must_ have been on the football team or something.

“Marco told us you’re in comp?”

Jean blinked. “Yeah,” he said. His throat was so dry he was surprised words came out at all. “I write a little.”

The blond boy chuckled, a deep resonating sound that made Jean squirm in his seat. “More than a little if that’s your concentration. I’m in audiovisuals and management.” He gestured to Bert with his thumb. “He’s in performance.”

“Cello,” Bert quickly defended himself, as if he were afraid Jean would immediately try to recruit him into a band or something. It was the first time Jean had heard him speak—a tone surprisingly smooth and lilting. “ _Orchestral_ performance.”

“He’s not trying to be pretentious, by the way,” Reiner said, like he was used to covering for Bert’s apparent social handicap. “Rock is cool. You guys should definitely go for some gigs downtown.” He nodded to Jean and Marco’s side of the table (Marco had taken a silent seat beside Jean at the beginning of the conversation but remained eerily silent) before finally stuffing his face with the heaps of food he had managed to stack onto a single plate.

“Don’t pressure him, Reiner.” Finally. Jean was starting to worry about Marco’s uncharacteristic silence. “We haven’t decided for sure on anything.”

Through a mouthful of food, Jean heard Reiner mumble something about him and Marco making a great couple, at which Marco’s cheeks flushed some shade of red not unlike the tomatoes Jean had forked off to the side of his plate from the shitty Italian salad he had been picking at.

“Didn’t mean that any way you don’t want it to,” Reiner laughed.

Jean watched Bert kind of hide his face with one hand and vaguely felt the same instinct. What the hell was happening? Couple? Reiner was talking about the collaboration. He had to be. This talking to people thing was too much, and it didn’t help that Marco was so obviously uncomfortable beside him. If _Marco_ was uncomfortable—sweet, outgoing, friendly Marco—then what the hell was _he_ supposed to be?

“Reiner, come _on_ , we’re just—“ Marco hadn’t touched his food.

Reiner shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

Jean watched Bert nudge his friend’s shoulder, and that was that. Was Jean supposed to know what was going on?

“I’ll help out, you know, if you decide to do anything. Got your tech shit covered.”

Reiner was sweet to offer, but hadn’t Marco _just_ told him not to pressure Jean into anything?

“ _Thanks_ , Reiner.” Marco spoke emphatically and glared across the table in such a way that indicated the conversation was over.

Jean found himself on more than one occasion making eye contact with Bert, who seemed to keep staring at him like there was food on the side of his mouth or something in his teeth. _Creepy as fuck_. He kept his eyes down, let Reiner and Marco talk and only offered answers to questions that were directed specifically to him. A slice of pizza in his hand way too limp to even be edible somehow made its way to his mouth, and he chewed carefully while avoiding eye contact as much as possible. Just when he had finally grown more comfortable eating with Marco, these guys had to pipe in and start the cycle of anxiety all over again.

Most of the conversation seemed mundane enough, nothing of any concern to Jean. He gathered a few things from Reiner and Marco’s exchange: they had attended high school together, Reiner and Bert were a year older than Marco, both had moved from their hometown to attend university while Marco had stayed to attend the local college during his freshman year. Marco’s transfer was mentioned, and Jean found himself suddenly paying more attention. He realized, curiosity piqued, that Marco had never really given him a reason for transferring. It probably wasn’t a big deal, but Jean couldn’t help but find himself disappointed when the topic of Marco leaving his first school was only glazed over with hardly any detail. They all spoke about it as if they knew the details and Jean was the only one out of the loop.

It irked Jean, but it wasn’t anything that he wasn’t used to by now.

“You’ve got to find yourself someone, Marco. It’ll help, you know.”

Marco shrugged. “Guess it has to happen eventually.”

“Only if you go and get it.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely. Hey, Jean!”

Jean lifted his gaze from where he realized he had been fiddling idly with his napkin and tapping his foot to some yet unformed rhythm that popped into his head. He needed his notebook. “Hm?”

“Make sure Marco gets out every now and then, yeah? Gets himself a date and has some fun.”

Jean blinked. The amount that Reiner didn’t know him was almost embarrassing, even if they had just met and Jean couldn’t possibly expect him to understand why in the world his command made no sense. He tried to laugh it off, a dry chuckle, and grimaced vaguely in Reiner’s direction. “Trust me, I’m the last person who would be any good at helping with that—“

Suddenly watching much more intently, Jean found his eyes drawn to the way Reiner gently brushed the back of Bert’s hand with his own. “We need someone to double date with.”

Bert blushed.

So they were a couple. Jean supposed that made a good bit of sense—they had seemed awfully close from the beginning, which might have been part of the reason Jean felt so intimidated by them. They were huge, Reiner was gruff and disgustingly overconfident—not unlike the guys in high school Jean remembered writing that note to (he wondered for a moment if any of them had gotten to read it before snapping himself back into the present to deal with the disaster that had become of dinner)—and it wasn’t just one it was _two_. Like he was being ganged up on.

At least Bert wouldn’t be so scary, Jean supposed, if he would just stop staring like a freak.

Marco sighed. “Look. You guys will be the first to know, okay?”

“What about you, Jean?” Reiner asked. “You got yourself someone special?”

Jean noticed the look of disbelief Marco shot in his direction and had to wonder why. Would it have been so unusual if he _did_?

He shook his head.

“No girlfriend?”

Another head shake.

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

Jean knew that people got caught up on the dating thing, but love was an emotion he hadn’t bothered to nurture in awhile. Nobody else seemed to think it was a big deal except for Reiner. So why?

Jean’s rather firm answer in the negative seemed to put a temporary halt on the conversation, so Jean excused himself to drop his plate on the conveyor belt of dirty dishes that led back into the kitchen and grab an ice cream cone, but mainly to get away from that table for a minute. It seemed awfully small to have two huge guys sitting on one side and he and Marco on the other. Too crowded.

When he came back, dragging his feet the whole way because really he just wanted to go home and lose himself in whatever came on shuffle on iTunes, Reiner was surprisingly silent and it was Marco and Bert who were talking this time. Jean couldn’t help but think it was odd to see Bert’s lips moving the way they were, because talking was just really obviously not his thing and he had been quiet all evening save for maybe three words.

Jean sat down, and there was silence.

He supposed it could have been an awful coincidence, but he was pretty damn sure that they had been talking about him. He wasn’t paranoid—that was just factually more likely, from Jean’s experience.

Calling them out would have been rude, and Jean convinced himself that he didn’t care enough to do something like that anyway, so he contented himself with going at his ice cream and pretending to concentrate more on that than the people around him. It would be better in the end, probably, if they didn’t think he was listening.

It would have been _best_ if he had not been there at all.

“You coming, Jean?”

Marco looked down on him from where he stood beside the table, empty cup and plate in hand.

He had to teach himself to stop zoning out like that. “Yeah,” he grunted, and popped what was left of the cone into his mouth so that his cheeks puffed out and he instantly regretted the way the ice cream melted all over his teeth, so sensitive to the cold.

He followed Marco out to the front of the dining hall, where Reiner and Bert were waiting to say their goodbyes.

“Give him our numbers and shit,” Reiner told Marco as they filed out the front door and into the nighttime air that had grown cooler during their time indoors. “We’ll see you around for sure, man.”

Bert, too, offered a little wave and a smile, more genuine than the one he had forced during their initial introductions, and then Jean and Marco were left by themselves.

Fucking finally.

“I’m really sorry.”

Jean shrugged. “Yeah, that was weird. And—“ He paused, wondering if he’d sound stupid for saying this. “You looked terrified. I was worried.”

_Way to admit how grossly weak you are, Kirschtein. Good job._

Marco shook his head slowly from side to side, obviously still pensive about something or other. “Don’t worry about it. I was just surprised to see them.”

Jean wanted to make some quip along the lines of shouldn’t your creepy-ass Ouija board have warned you, but he bit his tongue. Marco probably didn’t even know Jean had seen it, probably didn’t want his roommate to know he had one at all. A shiver ran up Jean’s spine, and he pushed the thought from his mind only for wisps of other uncomfortable memories to replace it. It felt strange to have socialized, and he thought wryly to himself that Reiner probably considered him a friend now. Maybe Bert. Probably not.

Having Marco was enough to get used to. When Jean had applied for the music program at this university, he hadn’t intended on signing up for a social life. He wanted to write music, to play it, to perform and get his name out there so maybe _someone_ in the world would think some good of him.

Talking to cellists and buff tech guys had never been a part of his plan, much less _befriending_ them.

“They’re nice though, right?”

“Huh?”

“Reiner and Bert. They liked you. I could tell.”

Jean ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess so. They’re all right.”

“You’ll definitely see Bert in the studio. He practices there all the time. I think you two would get along if you tried.”

Jean felt trapped, way too confined when he stepped on the elevator and the door slid shut with a hum. The miserable ascent always seemed to last longer than it really did—sharing an elevator with another person had always squicked Jean out. At least, most of the time, no one seemed to notice him.

“And about what Reiner said—I’m sorry about that, too. He was super out of line.”

What was Marco blathering about now? As much as Jean had to admit that Marco had a pleasant voice, there was only so much talking he could endure in one night, and he was pretty sure he had reached his limit sometime during his second slice of pizza. He dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand and muttered something about it being fine without even knowing for certain what, exactly, Marco was apologizing for.

Jean took longer in the shower than usual if only to postpone having to be in the same room with another human being for just a few minutes longer. His mind was everywhere at once as the steam rose and made his vision foggy and enveloped his skin in warmth. He should have been relaxed, but how could he be? New words and beats and notes scrambled to be strung together in his head, because he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t composed at least a short, shitty song in the shower. The hot water and pungent smells of soap and shampoo always seemed to clear his head, but tonight, he wasn’t so lucky, because all he could envision was the way Reiner had brushed Bert’s hand and mentioned something about wanting a double date, the way they looked at each other even in passing and how their expressions dripped with affection and some other conglomeration of emotions that made Jean’s stomach turn.

How the hell were two people like them even a couple? Bert was so quiet and awkward, not unlike Jean, he admitted to himself. Reiner, on the other hand, was like a damn frat boy or something with the way his tshirt had clung so tightly to unnecessarily large biceps and the unabashed way he had inquired about Jean’s and Marco’s love lives.

It would be weird to date someone.

Jean wrinkled his nose. Definitely weird. And distracting. Jean had goals and aspirations and he couldn’t afford any setbacks from shitty, backstabbing relationships.

But fuck would it be nice to have someone to look at him the way Reiner looked at Bert, to have someone hold his hand under the table at the dining hall and kiss him goodnight and maybe even a little more beneath the sheets—

Absolutely positively _enough_.

Jean slammed his fist down on the shower handle to cut off the flow of water, ignoring the patches of soap lather that still clung to his skin, and the lack of heat immediately gave rise to goosebumps and a shiver down his spine.

_But if you could, would you?_

He wasn’t sure where the question came from, because Jean had steeled himself from thinking any further on that topic.

Nonetheless, he found himself uncertain. Maybe? It would depend, he supposed, on the other person involved—not that there was room for another person in his life aside from maybe in the songs he wrote in that little black journal. Those were all fantasies anyway—dark, imaginative scenarios erring on the side of pessimism.

_What if it was Marco?_

All at once, Reiner’s comment and Marco’s apology in the elevator came flooding back. They would make a good couple, Reiner had said, and Marco’s embarrassment told Jean that the wannabe frat boy hadn’t been talking about their musical inclinations.

Fucking ridiculous. _He’s fake. A fake piece of shit like everyone else on this godforsaken planet._

_Or is he?_

Jean didn’t care when he towel dried his hair so roughly that it stood up in all directions. He didn’t care if it dried that way and he’d have to wear a warm hat in the hot barely-out-of-summer weather to hide its unruliness in the morning. Really, he just wanted to go to sleep.

 _Are you sure_?

No. No, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he would date Marco. Whatever. But like hell if anyone expected him to be the one to take the initiative to progress that unlikely scenario.

His shirt and pajama pants clung kind of uncomfortably to his skin when he stepped out of the bathroom and headed straight for the bottom bunk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marco kneeling by the closet, shuffling through some of his clothes or something that Jean couldn’t have cared less about.

“Going to bed already?” he asked, and Jean wondered if his voice could ever _not_ be so cheery like that.

“Yeah,” he answered gruffly, and the fluorescent overhead light turned off above him, leaving the room lit dimly by a lamp on the desk.

“That too bright, still? I can turn it off and just use my phone light.”

Jean grunted something that was supposed to mean “it’s fine,” and luckily, Marco seemed to understand him.

The whole thing was stupid. He wished he had never met Reiner and Bert and hoped to whatever stars would listen that he would never have to see them again. So what if Marco was into guys? That was cool. But it had nothing to do with Jean, because he would forever remain convinced that there was no one in the world who could love him the way he needed to be loved.

That didn’t stop the uncomfortable knots twisting in his lower belly and threatening to develop into something much more substantial within the loose cloth of his pajama pants. If he was lucky, he would fall asleep before there was a problem to be taken care of, and that would be that.

With his knees curled up to his chest, Jean faced the corner of the wall and squinted his eyes shut, denying the heat in the pit of his stomach and the way his face and ears flushed for no reason.

_If you could, would you?_

_What if it was Marco?_

No. Maybe.

Yes?

Maybe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the first nsfw chapter that makes the explicit rating of this fic a necessary precaution. c:

Marco was there.

Jean could see him somewhere that was, given his roommate’s small size, presumably in the distance, but spatial recognition wasn’t a skill that seemed to be registering with Jean’s brain. Up, down, left, and right _existed_ , certainly, but every few seconds seemed to change them as if Jean was floating and couldn’t control his own momentum.

But Marco was definitely there. _He_ didn’t move, though he was the only thing.

Jean found himself reaching for him, and Marco reached back. Jean tilted his head to one side. Marco did the same.

And then came that too familiar coiling of heat in the pit of his stomach—exactly what he had fallen asleep to escape. Jean ignored the sensation at first, because what the hell could he do about it now, when he didn’t know left from right and when Marco was standing there in the distance like some sort of voyeuristic mirror—

His cock twitched and since _when_ had his dick been fully erect? Then he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut that he was looking at himself, hard and swollen, because his pants were gone and he was floating in some sort of endless space-time complex entirely naked and Marco was just _watching_ and _his clothes were gone, too_.

Even trapped in his dreamworld, Jean was oddly aware of it as such. He knew that he was asleep on his bottom bunk, probably tangled in the sheets because he always tossed and turned like a motherfucker. He knew that Marco was above him in his own bunk, maybe still awake and reading by the backlight of his laptop screen, but more than likely he was _not_ naked like that and he most _certainly_ was not beckoning Jean to come forward towards him.

Jean didn’t know when he had started, but he was jerking it. Intense, unnerving heat became something much more pleasurable once his hand was wrapped around the shaft of his cock, but Jean was quick to forget the feeling of relief when he glanced up to see Marco actually mirroring him again.

Jean had never seen his roommate naked, not even during the occasionally awkward mishaps that came with sharing a bathroom, but somehow his mind was certainly projecting Marco’s body now, loud and clear in all its glory. Marco, too, had his hand around his member, stroking so languidly and slowly that Jean just _knew_ he was intentionally being teased, and even though he couldn’t remember the last time he had had feelings for anyone, sexually or not, Jean wanted to be closer. He had to admit that this dream’s projection of Marco was a little more than just attractive—Marco was cute, Jean guessed, but in this situation there were definitely some things about him that Jean wanted to feel for himself…

Marco grinned at him then, that same dorky grin that reminded Jean of a puppy pleased to get attention after a long day of being lonesome, and it really didn’t match Marco’s actions at all. It was still pretty hot though, Jean supposed, if only because the grin was turned more devilish when paired with the way Marco so deliberately stroked that thick cock of his, right where he knew Jean could see it best.

Jean wanted to get to him.

He tried. He tried, tried, tried, and he was pretty sure he was moving his legs or something similar, but the emptiness in which he sat bore no sensation of motion.

The movements of Jean’s own hand slowed, and then there was nothing except that foreboding darkness that Jean couldn’t figure out. When he dreamed, there was usually _something_ more than this, he thought. There was _some_ kind of setting, even if a nonspecific one—all of this was new. He didn’t understand it and, frankly, it scared him.

His perception changed all at once, and Jean forgot the blackness. Marco was still there, though, seemingly closer but still out of reach, but that didn’t stop Jean from fixating on all the little details of his body that had been impossible to notice from a distance before. Somehow, what Jean could see was both a little and a lot, faint glimmers and glimpsing teases of Marco’s skin and his lips and since when had his biceps been so impressive? He wasn’t muscular, not the same way as that wannabe frat boy Reiner, but Marco was _strong_ and _solid_ and _oh, he was touching himself again—_

Jean’s cheeks burned even when Marco was gone, replaced by some greyish-white, like plaster—

He was awake, and suddenly all too aware of his cock tenting the front of his sweatpants. He hadn’t moved much from where he had fallen asleep curled up in a ball in the corner, but he had to admit that the enraptured look etched onto Marco’s face had been much more enticing than the bland section of wall now staring back at him.

Jean reached out blindly behind him because he knew his phone was somewhere, just as caught up amongst the blankets as he was, and finally located the thing beneath his pillow. A little past three in the morning. Wasn’t that called the witching hour or something? More like the _fuck_ -I’m-horny-and-need-to-get-off-hour. He was already sliding the waistband of his pants down his bony hips when he realized there was another factor in this equation—Marco.

It wasn’t so much that he was only a few feet above Jean (although that was certainly a problem, too), but that Jean had just had some sort of teenage fantasy dream about him.

_Marco?_

Fucking _really_?

Jean supposed it made sense. Marco was his only friend, and they had been getting close.

_What the hell are you thinking, Kirschtein. You’ve barely known him a week._

Besides, since when did Jean get _close_ to anyone?

He was hyper aware of every sound as he kicked his pants off and, on an afterthought, dragged the flat of his tongue down his palm. It wasn’t much, but it would help.

Damn, was it hard to keep down the fluttering sighs and little whimpers that fought to sound in the empty quiet of the dorm room the moment his fingers wrapped around his shaft. Startled, his whole body jerked when the air conditioning kicked on and managed to elicit a squeak from him. With the hand that wasn't occupied wrapping itself around his cock, Jean covered his mouth and felt his stomach turn with fear because _he had probably woken Marco_. And, if Marco was awake, this sure as hell wasn't going to work.

And, if this didn't work, Jean was afraid he might actually throw a fit.

When cool air from the AC unit in their window blew over too-hot, too-sensitive skin, Jean realized for the first time that he had wriggled out from underneath his blankets during his dream—wow, the memories of that were seeming more and more favorable every second—and that he was jacking it in plain sight. His cheeks and ears heated so much that he felt the pinpricks like burning needles in the back of his neck and wanted nothing more than to hide forever.

Besides, how the fuck was he supposed to masturbate when his stomach was turning flips and when the only thing he had to think about was an incredibly awkward and uncomfortable dream of his dorky, too-nice roommate?

Every rustle of his comforter and shift of his body on the mattress was much too loud, even over the steady hum of the air conditioning that was doing little to calm the lightning bolts of heat generated by Jean's nerves. Marco could have been awake. He might be listening.

Surely, there was no way he would be able to hear—not with the AC on and with Jean hiding his movements beneath a few layers of blankets. If only he could keep his damn mouth shut, it would all be fine...

He could barely believe how hard and _solid_ he felt in his hand, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been so turned on like this. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he had masturbated at all. Surely, this wouldn't take too long.

With more caution than would have been expected for a boy Jean's age, he finally let his hand slide down to the base of his cock, stopped, experimented with a light squeeze, lifted his hand again until his thumb was swiping a tiny bead of sticky liquid from the tip of his cock. That was normal, right? It was. Jean grimaced to accompany the way he was inwardly kicking himself. It wasn't like he had never done this before. Sure, it had been a long time ago, back when things had been a little more normal, before all of _that_ had happened, but why couldn't he remember what to do?

He had been a pretty typical fifteen year old boy. He had known what felt good at the time, so why not now when he was horny beyond all belief and wanted nothing more than to relieve himself quickly so he could get the fuck back to sleep? A little gasp escaped from somewhere in the back of his throat when he finally applied just the right amount of pressure. It was good. So good.

So he went faster.

He wasn't sure, as he pumped his erection and bit his lower lip to keep from doing anymore than breathing a little heavier than normal, why he had ever stopped doing this. Jean vaguely remembered how a time had come when it just didn't feel good, anymore. He remembered hating himself, feeling like he didn't deserve it. At least, that was what all of them had said.

He was Jean Kirschtein, just lousy Jean Kirschtein who didn't deserve anything.

Once he had gotten the thought in his head, it had been hard to eradicate.

Things were different now, and he was his own man. He found himself grinning, just for a moment, because he was doing this for himself and for no one else, because he _did_ deserve it and because that was all in the past.

Besides, Jean thought as he glanced over at his black journal on the bedside, he was creative. He was certainly imaginative. He had created that dream about Marco, after all, even if only subconsciously. The sharpness and clarity of those images conjured up out of his own imagination were his, and it was he who had developed them into something mindblowingly attractive, even if weird as hell. He was imaginative, visionary even.

Some scattered images flickered across his mind like an old slideshow, and his free hand wormed its way beneath his shirt to caress at his chest, to allow one finger, calloused from years of bearing down on guitar strings, to brush across the sensitve nub that was suddenly hard because it was cold and because Jean was so damn aroused—

Jean desperately wanted those slideshow snapshots to become something more vivid. He wanted to imagine and to feel and to see himself with someone, or to see someone with him, but everything was blurry. He realized with some disappointment that he had no idea what he even found attractive. He had never dated anyone, had never had any sort of hopeless crush in high school, couldn't even remember a vague inkling of what he had gotten off to when he was younger, before he was fucked up.

Everything felt odd, like he was in a place where he didn't belong because nothing was clear, but the motions of pumping his fist and fondling his balls and teasing his leaking slit was comforting, somehow, so he didn't stop.

Maybe he wasn't so creative, after all.

Jean thought bleakly back to the journal a few inches away and how he so often gave up after staring at a blank page for too long.

He gave up because he _couldn't_ , and because even if he could, he knew the shit wouldn't have been any good. Nothing he did was good, really—all of his lyrics little more than pathetic pleas for attention or ripoffs from artists he idolized. He wasn't unique, wasn't any good at much of anything. He wasn't talented.

He was just Jean Kirschtein, the one who didn't deserve anything.

And also Jean Kirschtein, the one who would do anything to get rid of this damned erection.

He tried everything he thought might work, touched himself everywhere, imagined everything, licked at his palms and jerked himself until both of his arms were worn out and his mind was nothing but a jumble of images that weren't so much sexy as they were confused. He wondered if his dream about Marco meant he liked guys—it was a distinct possibility, and one that he didn't mind, so he tried imagining that, too. He thought about everything there was to think about, or rather, everything that his mostly inexperienced mind could conceptualize when it came to sexual interaction with another human being, and still he got nothing.

With face hot and breaths coming heavier, he reached further with a shaking hand to poke at his entrance, explore himself with his fingers, but like hell he was actually brave enough to tackle penetration yet, no matter how good it might possibly feel.

It became easier and easier to forget that Marco was above him, because with every moment that passed, Jean became more and more focused inwardly on himself. He grit his teeth and threw his head back, thrashed against the pillows until his hair was probably a wreck, sticking up in all directions. He was so lost in the need to finish that he may have drooled a little—he wasn't even sure.

Dignity was a concept lost on him.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could imagine to push himself close enough to the edge that he could throw himself over with a few wet swipes of his tongue and flicks of his wrist.

He felt fucking pathetic.

There was music, though, which he appreciated. There was Marco's voice, too, the way it sounded so light and airy whenever he spoke, like all of his vocal training had carried over to normal conversation. Jean remembered the one time last week, back in the recording studio, that he had heard his roommate sing. He remembered how Marco had said he felt like he was singing to an audience, even though there was no one there, and a suddenly aching part of Jean's heart wished that he could be a part of that audience, because no one had ever cared about him enough to sing for _him_.

He had written song after song, had humiliated himself online with amateur recordings of covers to rock songs he thought, at the time, had been good.

He sang to be noticed, to be cared about, to let others know he cared about them, and to receive nothing in return—

It was disheartening.

So he didn’t sing, now.

Jean remembered the way Marco sang so passionately and wondered if he would ever perform that way for Jean, specifically.

Reiner and Bertholdt had said Marco was single, right? Jean wondered if Marco was in love with someone. Maybe it was unrequited, maybe it was something impossible or forbidden.

He wanted Marco to sing for him, and as much as the thought aroused him, as much as he imagined Marco humming sweet melodies in his ear, his lilting voice harmonizing softly, breath tickling the back of Jean's neck as he was held and caressed and made to feel important—

It wouldn't be for him. When Marco decided to sing for someone, it would be for his invisible audience or for a tryout or for someone, _anyone_ other than Jean, because Jean didn't deserve it.

He was Jean Kirschtein, the one who didn't deserve anything.

He repeated that familiar mantra in his head until he realized with some surprise that he was stroking a flaccid cock.

Well, fuck.

Something both shockingly familiar but also frightening pricked at the back of Jean's eyes, and he realized that he was about to cry. Why? Because he was pathetic, he had tried for some ungodly amount of time to get off in a bottom bunk beneath the guy he had just dreamed so explicitly about, and he hadn't been able to do it. He hadn't been able to picture anything, to figure out what was attractive to him or what he wanted to happen, he hadn't even had enough imagination to develop one firm vision in his head.

_What a worthless piece of trash you are, Jean._

The pillow was already flying across the room and smashing into the closet door with surprising speed when Jean realized he had thrown it. The merciless heat in his belly still had not settled despite him thinking himself right out of getting off, and he squirmed when he turned himself over and gripped at the one remaining pillow with such fervor that he could see his knuckles turn white even in the darkness of the room.

What kind of college guy couldn't get off due to such a shocking lack of proper sexual fantasies?

Even when he remembered his dream, he was reminded of how distant Marco had been and how Jean had never been able to touch him. There was something wrong, but when wasn't there? There was always something wrong with Jean, had always been.

But there was one thing about it.

Jean wanted to hear Marco sing.

He wasn't sure why—Jean was pretty much the farthest thing from romantic that could ever exist, and apparently, he wasn't as sexually attracted to Marco as he might have originally thought. If he had been, he would have been able to finish himself off, but he couldn't.

Despite that, he wanted to write for Marco, he wanted to hear him perform, he wanted to sing _with_ him.

His tongue darted out over lips chapped from open-mouthed panting and the constant fan of air coming from the air conditioning unit which finally turned off and left Jean musing in thick and uncomfortable silence.

On instinct, he reached out to the table and grabbed his journal again, flipped open to the page where he had stuck his pencil inside and scribbled some random shit that didn't matter because he couldn't think of anything actually meaningful to say, and wrote. It was quick and all-consuming and he wasn't sure where any of it had come from, but he was writing, and maybe it was for himself or for Marco or for both of them.

A brightly colored flyer peeked out from between some of the pages later on in the journal, one of the sheets that Marco had picked up for him.

They could get a gig, maybe. It would be weird, not having a full band and having to break out an acoustic guitar for the first time since Jean could even remember. He wasn’t sure exactly how comfortable it would be, or if he would have to sing. He was pretty sure he had no desire to try again—not now, when he smoked way too much and when his voice already bore a slight hint of rasp to begin with.

Raspy voices can still sound incredible, people had told him.

His didn’t.

But Marco would have him covered, certainly, and if Jean had a guitar in his arms and his fingers were flying over strings and frets and feeling the notes pulsate beneath his skin, that was all he needed.

He paused and poked at his lips with his pencil’s eraser—a habit he knew he had but never realized that he was doing. He had always wanted to play in a band, sure, and had presumed that would entail making some sorts of friends. But to play with only one other person was much more—intimate? A type of intimacy, if that was even the right word, that Jean had never shared with someone before but one that he wouldn’t be adverse to experiencing.

Collaboration wasn’t his thing, he had always said, because he was afraid. He was so fucking afraid, and for what? Where would he be without partners, connections, people to give him constructive advice when he sucked and to boost his confidence when he did something right?

“I’ll do it,” he said aloud, even though it was somewhere around four in the morning and the dorm room was as still and silent as the most deserted forest.

He must have declared his decision even more loudly than he realized, because Marco’s mattress shifted and the old springs inside it creaked with the movement.

Jean heard some sort of confused groan and a barely coherent “What?” and it was hard to believe that those kinds of noises could come from the same mouth that sang so skillfully in the studio.

_Way to go, Jean._

Those uncomfortable pinpricks of heat stabbed him in the back of the neck again, this time from embarrassment rather than arousal, but nonetheless he would rather have crawled beneath his bed and died than offer any sort of explanation.

“Jean?”

He could pretend to be asleep, he thought. He could go back on everything right now if he just didn’t say a word. Marco wasn’t the kind of guy who would push him into anything, no matter how much Reiner may have forced the issue.

“Can we practice, tomorrow?”

_How fucking dumb can you get, Kirschtein?_

There was a silence long enough that Jean wondered if Marco had fallen back asleep. Maybe he had, for a moment. “Practice what?”

The lump in Jean’s throat made it difficult to swallow. “For a gig. I want to play with you. I want you to sing. I mean.”

 _Wow_.

Just when Jean wished for nothing more than being able to see Marco’s face in order to gauge his reaction, mussed brunette hair and a forehead and then a pair of big, eager eyes peered at him from over the top bunk. “Really?”

Jean had to smirk at how much happiness and hope was packed into that single word, and also the way it was muffled into Marco’s mattress.

“Um. Yeah.”

A hand appeared from over the mattress, too, hanging low and palm facing towards Jean. A high five? Did people even give those anymore? Or was it a handshake? What was he supposed to _do_ with it?

_It’s four in the morning. Fuck it._

When he slapped his own palm against Marco’s, his roommate seemed pleased, so he had done the right thing.

“Heck yes,” Marco said, and his voice was still sleepy but his eyes were shining with what must have been victory.

Now, there was no going back.


	6. Chapter 6

The days were easier to get through now that Jean had something to work for, to live for. It wasn't much, but it was something; and it helped him believe he had a future in music, after all. Artists and bands got their start with bar gigs and friends and garages and late nights composing whatever shit came to their heads when they were drunk and spouting poetry in the form of guitar riffs and angry lyrics.

Jean had that, now. He had hope. He had Marco (not to mention whatever the fuck weird feelings still stirred low in his belly at night), and he had some manner of direction. The half-written songs and scribbled ideas in his little black notebook might not be his alone for very long. He was working on some final touches, would have a few songs of his own for he and Marco to perform at their first gig. Sure, they'd do a couple covers, probably some acoustic shit with some of Jean's flare; but to really make an impression they'd have to be original. Jean had it covered.

Red shoelaces flopped against the high-topped canvas sneakers--much too long even double-knotted. Late afternoon brought masses of students across the quad as they poured out of the academic buildings and back towards the dining halls and dormitories on the other side of campus. Jean was one of the few walking in the opposite direction, towards the fine arts buildings on the far side. At least he was used to being the one against the tide. Hell, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Hard rock poured into his ears through his headphones, probably loud enough for passersby to hear the melody. It had been a long time since he had cared about who could or couldn't hear his music, but when he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Spinning around landed him against a wall of hard muscle. He stumbled backwards, confused and startled as he tore the headphones from his ears.

Oh.

Him.

It was hard to hide his embarrassment even after he recognized his assailant as Reiner, the blond guy he had met with Marco at the dining hall the other day. He was so fucking clumsy.

_He probably thinks I'm a goddamned dweeb..._

Reiner chuckled, but the sound was light and good-natured. Jean felt only slightly at ease.

"Chill out, man," he said. His gruff voice was happier and more relaxed than Jean would have expected from someone who had practically been barreled over by a clumsy, skinny kid with a guitar on his back. At least that meant Reiner probably wasn't bothered.

Jean couldn't say that he would want to be on Reiner's bad side. He was much too big.

"You headed to practice?"

Jean blinked and, after a few seconds, realized he was supposed to nod. The music still screaming from his earbuds served as a distant soundtrack to the awkward beginnings of their conversation.

"Um, yeah."

It was a lot harder to speak without Marco around. Reiner was Marco's friend, not Jean's, but Jean supposed that mutual acquaintances _did_ speak out of obligation. He would try to play into the normalcy, then.

"I'm meeting Marco," he said after swallowing past the dry lump in his throat. "We're, um. Oh. Here." Jean realized it would be easier to _show_ Reiner than further torture himself in his pathetic attempts to explain himself. From the messenger bag slung across his body, he retrieved his Molskine notebook and the colored flyers Marco had gathered for him. He tugged the papers, some folded in half, others with bent corners, from between the pages and offered them to Reiner.

"Hunting for a gig?" Reiner asked.

Just as planned--fewer explanation for Jean to be held responsible for.

He nodded as Reiner shuffled through the flyers and scanned briefly over the titles of each one.

"These places are fucking lame, man." Even though Reiner laughed again, Jean didn't feel any more uncomfortable than he would have in the presence of a near-stranger wearing a straight face. It was obvious that Reiner meant no harm. "Marco pick these out?"

"Uh-huh."

"'splains everything. He doesn't get out much." Reiner grinned and extended his arm with the papers back out to Jean. "There are plenty of other places that will get you more of an audience. And a more lively one at that. Loud people who'll spread the word, you know? Better venues. Marco wouldn't know them, though. He probably just peeked into every bar he noticed that didn't look like a complete dive."

Jean blinked. So much for all those hopes and dreams and aspirations of making it big.

_Way to burst my fucking bubble, Reiner._

Either Reiner was extremely perceptive, or Jean's face had fallen even more than he realized.

"You free tonight?"

Jean shrugged. "Guess so. Marco and I were just going to work on a song I've--"

"Come out with me."

Eh? Jean lifted an eyebrow, skeptic, and Reiner clapped his hand on the smaller boy's shoulder.

"Yeah, it'll be fun. I'll show you the ropes, let you get a feel of the places you'll have more fun. We'll have a few drinks, you'll get a better idea for where you should _really_ be performing. Bertl doesn't go out, either, so I don't get the chance often. 'Sides, heard a lot about you from Marco. It'd be cool to know you, man."

Drinks. Public. Bars?

_Marco talked about me?_

Jean hoped his face didn't look as blank as his brain felt.

"Sure."

That single word was probably a self-imposed death sentence, but if what Reiner said was true, this would be useful.

He'd do anything. He had promised himself that. He was going to prove them all wrong.

"We'll walk downtown?"

Jean nodded.

"Can meet you by the rec center and we'll go from there, yeah? 'Round nine?"

Forcing a smile because it seemed right and because Reiner _was_ really going out of his way to be friendly, Jean tucked his notebook and now-useless flyers back into his bag. "Nine's good. Should I bring anything?"

Reiner chuckled. "Just your ID, man. And maybe eat, first, just in case we get crazy or some shit.”

Jean really doubted that would happen, but he was also smart enough to know that drinking on an empty stomach wasn't something he would want to do, regardless.

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "Cool. See you then?" He didn't even realize that he had been kicking the toe of his shoe into the grass the entire time he and Reiner had been speaking. A little hole of dirt greeted his gaze when he looked down and caught himself destroying the grass with his nervous habit.

"Yep. See ya!"

It was incredible how at ease Reiner was around people. Jean mused on his outgoing personality when he popped earbuds back into his ears and let himself be swallowed once again by the aggressive music from one of his favorite playlists. Normally, his heart might be beating fast because of the music, because he swore he could tune himself into the beat, but now the pounding against his ribs and the tightness across his chest was definitely something different.

Interaction. He had done it. Incredible.

The next time Jean freed himself of his earbuds to open himself to the outside world, the circumstances were much more comfortable. Marco had already reserved a practice room for them, and Jean slung the guitar off his shoulder as he greeted his roommate.

The warm smile and freckles pooling in dimpled cheeks were a welcomed sight after Jean's unexpected, nervewracking encounter on the quad.

"Hey!" Marco greeted. Jean watched his eyes light up with a childlike enthusiasm. It was cute. "How'd your day go?"

Jean knelt by his guitar case and snapped the hinges open to retrieve his instrument from inside. "Classes weren't bad, I guess. Almost fell asleep in history, though. Talked to your friend." Plucking a pick from a small compartment in the case, Jean rose back to his feet and glanced at Marco out of the corner of his eye, searching for a reaction.

"Really?" Marco looked genuinely as surprised as Jean felt when it was happening.

"Yeah. I. Um. Literally ran into him."

"Reiner?"

Jean nodded.

"Reiner's an easy guy to run into. He's kind of like a brick wall," Marco commented. Jean remembered how spinning into Reiner's hard body had almost knocked him backwards onto his ass. Yeah. He'd call that a brick wall, all right. The guy's strength was pretty terrifying, really.

"We're going out."

Marco only lifted an eyebrow, questioning.

"He said all your places were lame. For the gig, I mean. I told him about that."

"Lame?" The same eyebrows quirked in question drew together over wide, concerned eyes. "What do you mean lame?"

Jean shrugged and hung his guitar across his shoulders in the same motion, experimentally strumming a few chords and letting his fingers become one with the frets. "Dunno. Just looked at the flyers and he said the venues sucked. Like we could do better with an audience and stuff. Said he'd show me?"

"You're going bar-hopping with Reiner," Marco deadpanned.

Bar-hopping? Jean hadn't exactly thought of it like that, but he supposed Marco was right. Reiner obviously intended on them grabbing at least a couple of drinks, each. And he had promised to show Jean multiple possibilities for performance.

When Jean didn't immediately respond, Marco prompted, "You sure you'll be okay with that?"

Jean pursed his lips and continued to pick at his guitar, this time plucking out a melody on individual strings instead of strumming chords. "Why not?" He couldn't bring himself to meet Marco's gaze when he asked the question, because he already knew the answer.

"You just. Don't seem much like the type. I know you're not--" Marco paused, presumably to choose his words more carefully. "Entirely comfortable around people that aren’t me."

"Wow, conceited little bitch," Jean laughed, and Marco didn't deny it. He only returned his roommates smile. Jean was well aware that expressions of happiness from him were rare--hopefully Marco enjoyed the experience too much to be bothered by the name-calling. "So are we gonna get this demo done or what?"

Jean perched himself on a stool he dragged towards the center of the room and glanced up expectantly at Marco, who gave a thumbs up and hummed his way through some warmups.

The time passed quickly. It always did when Jean was playing. Even though he hadn't been able to rent an acoustic guitar yet, he and Marco made do with Jean's electric guitar and the room's amplifier for the time being. Lacking any sort of distortion pedals, Jean kept the style tame enough for Marco's tastes and the atmosphere that he expected many of Marco's chosen venues to possess. Maybe Reiner would show him something with a bit more style--quiet coffeehouse jams in bars full of middle-aged professors and older students wouldn't be Jean's style, even if it was Marco's.

There would be compromise somewhere, Jean supposed.

Or maybe he could just convert Marco to his side.

Jean hoped for the latter.

Midway through the bridge of the third track they rehearsed in earnest, Marco's voice cracked and Jean noticed the strain in the brunette's throat. He had lost track of time, and paused to consider the soreness of his fingertips despite the callouses. Jean would have worked through the pain, but Marco's pleading expression made him reconsider his obsessive work ethic.

"I'm gonna kill my voice," Marco commented dryly. He spun open the plastic top to his water bottle and tossed his head back to chug down several swallows of the liquid. Jean watched his throat move with every gulp, his eyes transfixed on Marco's neck and the way the muscles moved beneath fair skin. When Marco removed the bottle from his lips, he glanced up at Jean from the corner of his eye and smiled uncertainly. "You okay?"

Had he been fucking staring? Wow. Great. Smooth.

_How else can you be a loser today, Kirschtein?_

"Yeah."

"Sorry... I know you probably want to practice more but I've got to take care of my vocal cords. They're all I've got and I kind of depend on them."

Jean lifted his palms towards Marco and shook his head. "No, no, it's fine." He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse that Marco had misunderstood the reason for his glazed-over stare.

"I've got to eat and drop my guitar off and shit before I meet Reiner."

"I'm going to be honest--I'm still kind of in shock that you're actually going out."

Jean shrugged and lifted the guitar over his head to free himself of the strap crossing his chest. "Wanna come?"

Marco smirked and inhaled, letting out some sort of chortle on the exhale. "Think I'll pass. Bert and I might hang out. He gets lonely when Reiner leaves him."

"They're pretty cute."

"Yeah," Marco agreed.

For a moment, Jean wished that he could say the same about himself and Marco. How would it feel to be called "cute" in a unit with someone else? Jean wasn't sure how much he would appreciate the compliment, but to be one with another person at all would be...

Nice.

He wondered if there was really any point in keeping up his loner persona anymore when it was becoming more and more clear that all he wanted was intimacy.

After some banter with Marco about what was and was not appropriate bar attire, Jean finally agreed to change into at least a button-up shirt. Marco had made a good point when he had noted that Jean might be meeting the owners of certain venues they would perform at and would need to make a good first impression.

The argument began when Jean insisted that his worn Linkin Park hoodie would make plenty a good impression enough. Marco disagreed.

"It's not like there's a fucking dresscode," Jean murmured under his breath, and Marco only gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

"You're just mad because I'm not letting you wear your favorite hoodie."

Jean rolled his eyes. "Who are you? My mother?"

"Someone's got to take care of you."

Jean only pretended to mind.

He met Reiner at the rec center just as they had agreed and made the short excursion downtown. It was a Thursday night, so the sidewalks were anything but barren. Thursday was the new Friday, after all, and Jean and Reiner were certainly not the only students ready to party through the night.

"Okay," Reiner said when a busy intersection came into sight and more and more lights illuminated the street. "Game plan."

"You take this pretty fucking seriously, don't you?" Jean asked, tone flat.

Reiner only pursed his lips as if the answer was obviously _duh_.

"We'll drop by a couple places I think you'll like first. Not clubby, but still enough energy to get a good crowd going when there's live music. We can grab a beer at each one, talk to the bartender or whatever. Just feel it out, y'know? Ask questions if you want or whatever."

Jean grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I don't really know what questions to ask, man. This whole thing was Marco's idea."

"But it's your dream," Reiner said that like he actually gave a damn.

Jean wanted to ask what, exactly, Marco had said to Reiner about him; but the only response that made it out of Jean's mouth was a baffled, "Huh?"

Reiner shrugged. "Kinda obvious."

"That mean I seem desperate?"

"Nah."

"So the rest of the game plan is?"

They had reached the intersection by now, the crosswalks bustling with girls in short dresses and guys wearing old tshirts and shorts. So maybe Marco had been on to something when he had helped Jean pick out his shirt. Even the dark-wash skinny jeans looked nicer than most of the shit the other guys were wearing.

"Right. So a couple bars for you. After that we head to a club or two. Not because you'd perform there but, you know. Because you'll be feelin' good after a few beers at the other places, yeah?"

Jean didn't even have it in him to break it to Reiner that he hated beer, so he contented himself to nodding and offering a half-assed thumbs up before sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting up. He wordlessly offered the pack to Reiner as the first exhale of smoke curled around his lips, but Reiner only waved it off. His loss. This shit was a hell of a lot better than beer.

On the way down the street, Reiner pointed out the venues that Marco had chosen--almost all of them holding more of an artistic, hipster vibe than Jean was into. Sure, they could have been better than nothing at all, but that just wasn't his shit. Maybe it was Marco's. At least their fusion of styles could be something unique enough to get them noticed. "See?" Reiner prompted. "They pretty much suck."

"No, they _definitely_ suck."

"This'll be more to your taste, I think," Reiner said as he made a right turn to enter through a subtle door. Jean allowed himself a final hefty drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt away and following Reiner through the door and up a flight of stairs. At the top, they flashed their IDs, Jean held out his hand for a wet stamp to be placed on its back, and that was that. Simple.

At least, in theory it was.

"You're not 21?"

Jean shook his head. "Just turned 19."

"Well fuck." Reiner grinned. "Guess all the drinks are on me, then."

He had barely had enough time to take in the bar's atmosphere before Reiner was pressing a cold bottle, already opened, into his hand.

"Don't I need to, like, wash the stamp off or something if you're gonna force drinks on me?" Jean mumbled. It was loud enough no one else would hear, but he still felt an obligation to turn himself into a corner so that his possession of a Bud Light wasn't immediately obvious to any of the bartenders or staff.

"Nah," Reiner answered with way too much confidence. "Seriously, don't worry about it. No one's gonna notice. I swear."

Jean hummed and brought the bottle to his lips, but even as it neared them the smell of hops overwhelmed him and he grimaced before he could stop himself. He wasn't entirely sure why he trusted Reiner so much and why the fuck he was so comfortable with this, but the guy had a way about him.

"Shoulda told me you weren't a beer guy!”

Reiner _had_ to be perceptive--at this point Jean knew that his expressions couldn't possibly be giving away this much about him. He was too quiet, too unobtrusive for that. Or maybe he wasn't, and he was just fooling himself into thinking that he wasn't wearing his heart on his sleeve all along.

"Mixed drink, then? Whatcha like? Rum? Vodka?"

Jean's lips twitched into a grimace. "D-daiquiri?" He was such a fucking pansy. He shouldn't be here.

"You don't drink, do you?"

A non-committal shrug of Jean's shoulders served as his only reply, but Reiner only grabbed the bottle from Jean's hand before effortlessly carrying himself over to the bar again. Jean didn't feel _too_ bad about Reiner throwing away money on him. A guy his size could easily handle two beers, so it wasn't like Jean's would go to waste.

_I wonder if he can get fucking drunk at all?_

It took a minute for the bartender to make whatever-the-hell concoction Reiner had ordered for Jean, so he took the opportunity to wander deeper into the mass of people and towards the back of the establishment. A small platform raised a couple feet off the ground served as the place's stage--there were some amps and cords and an abandoned keyboard next to a stool, but no one was playing at the moment. It was still early in the night. Maybe later, Jean supposed.

The place had a good air about it--a mix of the younger college generation and a few middle-aged folks joining in on the fun. Countless strands of multi-colored Christmas lights were nailed to the wood-paneled ceiling like a rainbow of stars. Jean figured it must have been a year-round thing, for the ambience or whatever. They were just enough to tint the room’s atmosphere with a kind of light comfortably not fluorescent—he could kind of see himself getting used to the place, even if it seemed more like a bar that would host poetry readings than aspiring rock stars. 

“Hey.”

Reiner’s voice and the heavy weight of his arm when he nudged Jean’s back startled him from this thoughts. This time, he held out a clear plastic cup instead of a bottle, full of some translucent drink and some ice with a couple mottled strawberries and a lime on top. Jean took it carefully and avoided inhaling the stringent smell of alcohol.

“Should taste better.” Reiner nodded towards the cup. “Try it.”

Surprisingly, there was enough sweetness in whatever this was that Jean didn’t mind it nearly as much as he minded the overwhelming sensation of drinking carbonated, liquified bread. The alcohol’s bite only hung on his tongue for a few seconds. Otherwise, the aftertaste was all saccharine. He offered a hesitant smile to Reiner and nodded. “Thanks. It’s good.”

Jean wasn’t entirely sure why Reiner’s barkey laugh was necessary, but he smirked along all the same when Reiner lifted his own bottle to his lips and tipped his head back. “So whaddaya think? Maybe not the best place, but a younger crowd than the weird shitholes Marco picked out blind.”

“Kinda—“ Jean searched for the right word. “Hipster, or something. Not bad, though.”

“It picks up on the weekends. And it’s still early. ‘ve seen some pretty fuckin’ good shows here, better than you might think.” Reiner plopped himself down into one of the rounded booths against the wall and patted the seat beside him for Jean to rest his ass on.

Silently slurping up his drink from the straw that made it entirely too easy for him to drink quickly, Jean slid onto the worn seat and peered around with the curiosity of a child rather than the punk-ass kid he probably looked like. The grin that Reiner didn’t hide between drinks of beer made it clear that he was amused. 

“So what’re you and Marco aimin’ to do, anyway? Isn’t he kind of a coffee shop soloist?”

Jean nodded thoughtfully. Yeah, he guessed that was one way to phrase it. “We’re still working on a hybrid style,” Jean shrugged. “I mean, we haven’t been going at it long. Think we’re still figuring out what works. He’s not used to anything other than, like, piano accompaniment.”

“Yeah,” Reiner agreed. “He and Bertl are kinda on the same page with that shit. I’m more like you.” He elbowed Jean in the ribs, lightly this time, but still enough to knock the thinner of the two a little off-balance. “There’s more than acoustic mess, here. Seen some pretty good classic rock covers, things like that. Like I said, it picks up. Doesn’t feel so much like a Starbucks or a hippie hotspot as it does right now. Different crowd on the weekend.”

Whatever the fuck was in Jean’s drink was goddamn addicting—he had barely torn his lips from the straw once or twice to breathe, otherwise keeping a near-constant pull on it with his lips. Reiner’s hand came to rest gently on Jean’s long fingers wrapped around the cup.

“Slow down, man. You’re not used to this bullshit.”

“Says the one who just finished off his beer.”

“It’s a fucking _beer_ , Jean. You’re probably going on your third shot of liquor, and you’re hella tiny.”

“I have to be if I wanna look good in these damn jeans.” Jean could only barely believe that had come out of his mouth. There was no way he was drunk yet, though—not enough time for the alcohol to make it into his system. More like he was just way too comfortable around Reiner.

“You’re not bad when you loosen up, man. So you gonna talk to the bartender or what?”

Right. Talking. Jean had kind of forgotten about that. He fidgeted on his ass and drew his lips to one side when he peered over his shoulder towards the bar and the people sitting at it. Well damn.

“That fucking shy, huh?”

Jean had a feeling he looked ashamed, especially if the heat prickling his cheeks and the back of his neck was any indication of how red his face had become. 

“Guess it’s good you’ve at least got people like Marco and me. Bert’s the same way. It’s cool. I’m used to it. I got this first one, but you gotta come up with me because you’re the one gonna be playing, not me. Gotta rep your own, man.”

Fair enough.

_I guess._

The woman at the bar whom Jean had seen making Reiner’s drinks was at their beck and call in only an instant—what kind of tip or compliment had Reiner left for her? She offered a bright smile and eyed both Reiner and Jean, one after the other, while Reiner casually sipped from what had been Jean’s beer before. 

“What can I get ya?”

“We’re interested in playin’ here,” he said, and Jean was grateful that he included himself, too—would’ve just been more awkward had Reiner done all the talking but pointed to Jean as the sole artist. “You’re not booked up for the year, are you?”

Jean eyed Reiner with both curiosity and amazement. Guy sure was good with people. There was something about him, a glimmer in his eye or something about that confident smile-scowl that just drew people in, Jean included.

“You’ll have to talk to Dale about that,” the bartender said. “Think he’s in the back. But if I had to guess, we’ve probably got some openings right after Christmas. Lemme go see if I can grab him, mkay?”

Reiner lifted his bottle to her and nodded as she retreated, and Jean slid himself into a stool at the bar to finish off his drink that tasted more like a fruity sprite than actual alcohol. The tiniest tingling wave pushed through his head, as if through one ear and right out the other, but that was all. Jean wasn’t sure if he could pin it on the alcohol or just his own social anxiety. He rubbed at the back of his neck and tugged at his collar. Damn. It was hot in here.

The crushed ice gathered at the bottom of his cup along with the fruit that had topped the beverage was beginning to look mighty appetizing. 

Of course this important guy named Dale would follow the bartender back out just as Jean was noisily crunching through a mouthful of ice so huge he could barely close his eyes and smile. Fuck. Brainfreeze.

“What kinda music are y’all lookin’ to play?” he asked, motioning for them to follow him around to the end of the bar where he stepped out from behind it to shake their hands one by one. Jean tried to swallow down as much of the ice as he could without choking—he saw Reiner glance at him with particular concern when the bar owner reached out to take Jean’s thin, slightly shaking hand in his own. 

Either Reiner was just overly worried or he really _was_ that aware that Jean was a socially awkward piece of shit.

“Definitely rock-influenced,” Reiner spoke up for Jean. “Just a two-man show, probably—guitar and vocals. Lightly modulated electric guitar but I mean,” he glanced at the smaller man who was practically quaking in his Doc Martens. Jean nodded and offered a lop-sided smile.

“Yeah, definitely. I can play acoustic, but I’d rather keep it more energetic, y’ know?” Not that acoustic music couldn’t be played energetically—shit, Jean bit his tongue and just prayed to whatever stars were listening that he hadn’t offended anyone. This Dale guy’s spirits didn’t seem at all dampened, though, so maybe he was in the clear. Reiner kind of half-nudged him with his elbow in what Jean supposed was supposed to be a comfortable gesture.

“We’ll need a demo, first, but we’re always up for more energy in this place. Sounds like you’d mesh well with the weekend crowd. Hope lotsa people don’t bother you.”

Reiner’s laughter luckily heard Jean’s sarcastic, half-hearted scoff. “Perfect. How many tracks you need?”

The owner tilted his head to the side in consideration, then brought it back the other way. “Four or so should work. Y’know, typical length.”

“Covers?” Reiner prompted.

“Half covers max. Goes for performances, too. I mean, I figure you wanna promote your original music, too, and we like to keep things mixed up, here.”

When Reiner nodded, Jean followed suit and bobbed his head along with him. Made sense. Cool.

“Here.” Dale dug out a business card from his pocket, one of the corners bent and worn, and pulled a pen out from behind his ear. On the back, he scrawled down a few bulleted instructions for submission, then flipped the card over and circled his email on the front. “There ya go. Spaces fill up fast, though. So the sooner you can get your tracks in, the better.” The smile he offered was genuine, made Jean think he might have actually had some sort of chance in this whole shebang. Dale’s instructions hadn’t been too much unlike any of the information that Marco had brought home from the (according to Reiner) less-favorable venues. They all shook hands again—Jean slightly more competent at the whole social gesture thing this time around—and Reiner finished off his beer in only a few long gulps. 

Jean cocked an eyebrow and let out the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding pent up in his chest for this long. Was that his heart beating so fast it pounded against his sternum?

Reiner’s bottle clunked when he thumped it back on the bar and turned to his much smaller friend. Maybe it was just Jean but…

The way Reiner smiled with his teeth, his lips stretched wide, almost made Jean think that Reiner was _proud_ of him. He clapped his hand on Jean’s smaller shoulder and jerked his head towards the door. “Ready to get out of here? I’ve got a couple more I wanna show you before we get to the fun stuff.”

Jean tried so hard to keep himself from smiling—he really did—but he couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitched up when he asked, “Do I get another one of those drinks at each one?”

“I’ll get you something better than that shitty fruit drink.” Reiner led the way back towards the front and back out onto the street. It was picking up speed outside, the sidewalks rippling with waves of people, some in crowds and others in smaller groups. More headlights shone in Jean’s eyes than he would have liked, so he kept his head down and stuck close at Reiner’s heels. “Every try a rum and coke?”

There was no way Reiner saw Jean shake his head, but he didn’t wait for a more definitive answer. Instead, he called over his shoulder as he motioned for Jean to jog across the street during a momentary lull in traffic, “You’ll love this next one. I might not be able to drag you out.” His laugh was just boisterous enough that Jean would have been embarrassed had everyone else on the street not been just as obnoxious. Still, it was hard not to like Reiner. This was going well—shockingly well. Marco would be proud.

“What’s so special about it?” Jean followed Reiner down a flight of concrete stairs and into a slightly smaller venue, but one full of the kind of vibes that Jean thrived on. “Oh.”

Reiner just looked at him, smug, as they paused for a moment in the doorway to flash their IDs. “See?”

This place was darker, all brick and deep reds and graffiti on the walls. A couple of big screen TVs flashed music videos above the bar, while a third in the corner was hooked up to a Wii. The guys playing it were flailing around in the tennis game, but Jean didn’t mistake a pair of guitars from Guitar Hero propped up behind the console. Ironically, he sucked at that game, but it was still an installment he appreciated, nonetheless. Just like before, Reiner took charge of ordering the drinks while Jean took note of the rest of the bar’s interior. There were no bands playing that night, replaced instead by some pretty quality metal blaring through the overhead speakers.

“I kind of imagine this is what your iPod sounds like,” Reiner called over his shoulder from the bar while he waited for the drinks. 

Jean made some sort of non-committal shrugging notion. Yeah, if the rest was like this, Reiner was probably right. He noticed a small group huddled in the corner over their drinks—most of them with hair colors not on the spectrum that would be considered “natural” and all of them wearing the exact kind of ripped jeans and band t-shirts that Marco had made sure Jean _didn’t_ show in public tonight.

Jean did more of the talking this time, when his new drink was halfway gone (the rum and coke wasn’t bad, he decided) and Reiner figured out who they should be talking to. Perhaps it was the alcohol just loosening his tongue, but to Jean it seemed more like Reiner was imparting some of his own confidence onto him. With each passing minute he spent with Reiner, more and more of him was willing to put one foot forward, to edge out on a limb, to bring his dreams one step closer to reality. 

They left with another business card in hand, and a third from yet another bar. “Talkin’ to these guys in person will put you ahead of the game, you know,” Reiner said while he and Jean sipped the last of their drinks, tucked away at a table away from the gathering crowd around the bar and the open floor that some used for dancing. “You’re doing great, man.”

Jean’s laugh was more like a little half-sigh forced through his nose. At least it was dim enough in this bar that he could hide the shade his cheeks turned at the compliment. Encouragement and praise weren’t things he was accustomed to. “If you say so, I guess.” 

“You happy with three contacts for now? I can get you in with a couple more, if you’re interested, but later. They’re personal friends.” 

How many people did Reiner _know_? Jean supposed that someone as charismatic as him had quite the collection of Facebook friends or Twitter followers or whatever it was his preferred social media platform utilized. “Sure.” He may have become more talkative with more drink and more practice, but the monosyllabic answer was still something Jean found himself much more comfortable with. He finally put away the rest of his drink (Reiner had finished his ages ago and still didn’t seem even the slightest bit affected) and made a move to slide out of the booth. The drink must have been kicking in to his malleable brain, because he didn’t quite realize that there was a hulking mass of man in the way. He bumped into Reiner for the second time that day.

“Ready to go so soon?” Reiner’s voice held enough amusement to make Jean at least mildly ashamed of his mistake. He steadied himself just in time to get a glance of Reiner’s phone screen, brightly illuminated in the otherwise low-lit bar. The messenger app was open, and Jean didn’t even mean to pry but when he was so close to Reiner it was hard not to see—

_Ah, we were wondering if Jean was the one doing the talking… Are people seeing him?_

Jean’s face fell. Who the hell didn’t believe in him now? Was it Marco? He had turned away too quickly to see whose face resided at the top of the conversation. 

“Bert and Marco just makin’ sure you’re doing all right and everything.” Reiner spoke up so quickly that shame hit Jean like a soccer ball in the gut. Fuck, Reiner knew he had seen his screen.

“I wasn’t, like, trying to—“

Reiner laughed. “Hey, no worries, man. I know. I mean, Bertl gets you. He barely has any public presence, so I’m sure he’ll be really happy to know that the owners came and saw _you_ personally, instead of just me. Marco’ll be proud, too, I bet.”

Jean blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been so many people rooting for him. Hell, he knew he couldn’t remember because there had _never_ been so many. His stomach felt light and airy in his abdomen, floating up to a beating heart he fully expected to explode at any moment. 

He watched Reiner tap out a quick reply with his thumbs and then shove his phone back into his jeans pocket before standing up and finally letting Jean out of the booth like he had wanted all along. “All right, man, you ready for some real fun, now?”

As far as Jean was concerned, there really wasn’t a good way to answer that, so he resorted to doing what he did best as of late—staring. 

Reiner elbowed Jean in the ribs and pushed lightly on Jean’s shoulder blade to get him headed towards the door. “Yeah. Fun. We’re about to pop your clubbing cherry.

“Hold on.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where I must insert my first gore warning. I knew it was coming for a long time, but here it is in all its horrific glory.
> 
> Also, warnings for this chapter include some pretty excessive alcohol and drug use. I guess this is a sign that things are finally getting intense. Fun. Stuff.

_We’re about to pop your clubbing cherry._

Jean repeated Reiner’s words in his head. Did he really have to say it like that? It sounded so… Filthy, somehow. What, exactly, would Jean be expected to do or partake in? What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

Those dreams he had about Marco every now and then popped into his head. 

“Make it sexual, why don’t you?” Jean murmured as he followed Reiner out of the bar and back onto the busy street. 

“Just a joke man.” When Reiner laughed it off, Jean regretted his comment. The last thing he wanted was to seem uptight, or like a prude. He certainly was _not_ that, not when he was struggling to keep his dick in his pants at even the slightest _remembrance_ of those dreams and thoughts that had started to come more frequently as of late.

Jean shrugged. “Yeah. Me, too.” He hadn’t been laughing when he had spoken, though. He hadn’t _looked_ like he was kidding. Had he been? He was starting to confuse himself wondering if he had actually been offended or disturbed by Reiner’s euphemism. In the end, he really wasn’t sure. 

As always, Reiner was just too nice of a guy, and Jean found himself eternally grateful that his new friend chose to either accept or just ignore Jean’s social fuck-ups in favor of treating him like a normal guy and bringing their topic of conversation back on track with a question.

“So, you feeling buzzed at least?”

Jean stared at him, eyes lined with the remnants of yesterday’s faded eyeliner. His mind swirled a little with the effort of coming up with an answer, so he was pretty sure that equalled a “yes.” He nodded, and even that motion sent an interesting tingle through his senses that warped one of the traffic lights in the corner of his eye. His surroundings weren’t spinning, quite yet, but they were wobbly at best. He was glad Reiner stood next to him as a strong anchor of support, plus someone who would reach out and grab Jean out of traffic if his alcohol-affected brain decided that pedestrian traffic signals didn’t warrant his attention.

“This place’ll be a lot more fun if you are,” Reiner continued. “I mean, we can always buy drinks there. Hell, maybe Jaeger can even get us a couple for free.”

_Jaeger?_

Jean must have lifted his eyebrow or something else to indicate his confusion, because Reiner quickly corrected himself. “Yeah, friend of ours. His name’s Eren. Well, I think he’s a ‘he’ right now. Genderfluid.”

The corners of Jean’s lips pulled down as he nodded, but not in a negative way. He processed that information, remembered what Reiner had said about free drinks, then asked, “So is he, uh, like a bartender?”

Reiner laughed. “Naw. He’d be the most fucking spastic bartender I’ve ever met. Just a regular. I swear he spends more time in this club than he does everywhere else combined. He’s a DJ, does some of the shows there and stuff.”

Okay, so that made sense. A regular and a performer could definitely get a few drinks on the house every now and then. 

“Bottom line is, I know you’re kind of a quiet guy. I mean, my boyfriend’s the same way. You wouldn’t catch him dead in a place like this. But I think once you’re loosened up it’ll be good for ya.”

When they turned the next corner, their destination became rather obvious. A couple of guys dressed in black sat near the door, framed beneath a row of colorful lights that brightened the otherwise dark sidewalk. A block or so away from the more well-lit main road of the university’s downtown strip, this place wouldn’t be chock full of frat guys and sorority girls in tiny dresses waving around their designer handbags with a cocktail in the other hand. This place was grittier, less of a stereotypical college joint and more of an everyone-accepted atmosphere. 

Jean looked nothing like a raver--Reiner didn’t either, he thought--and yet it wasn’t too difficult for them to find themselves right at home. Sure, some of the folks inside sported more of a casual cyberpunk wardrobe, facial piercings that glowed in UV light, or dreadlocks intertwined with colorful ribbons--but when Reiner and Jean leaned up against the bar, there wasn’t anything about them that would keep them from being served with any less cheer than the rest of the patrons.

Jean noticed Reiner glancing around the dancefloor and the surrounding areas, in search of his friend, probably.

As if on cue, someone a solid four inches or so shorter than Jean leapt up to the bar and threw his arms around Reiner’s much-more-elevated shoulders. Brunette bangs were a sweaty mess on the kid’s forehead, and his cheeks were flushed with the thrill of the beat. He’d been dancing, Jean assumed, probably mashed up in the huddle of bodies near the center of the dancefloor that looked like they had been going hard for hours. 

The place didn’t smell bad, at least, not like sweat and alcohol like Jean might have expected. There _was_ some sort of distinctive musk about it, though, but nothing quite like anything Jean had smelled before. Mentally, he tried to imagine some sort of concoction that would make sense to describe the atmosphere around him, but nothing came to mind.

_Guess it’s just, well, club smell. Weird._

The brunette, his arm still hoisted up over Reiner’s broad shoulders, met Jean’s gaze for the first time. “Yo.”

It was pretty amazing how huge and somehow _ferocious_ those green eyes were, bright and alive with the thrill of deep, filthy bass but also distant, in a way. Drugs, if Jean had to guess. Somewhere like this, they were probably commonplace. 

“Sup, Eren.” As always, Reiner’s greeting was both casual and friendly, his voice a comfortable place, somewhere safe. “This is Jean, Marco’s roommate.”

Eren’s eyes lit up with realization, one of his pierced eyebrows quirking to complete the expression. “Oh, yeeeah. That guy. Cool to meet ya, man.” Jean wasn’t allowed much time for his own contribution to the introduction before Eren turned back to Reiner again and spat out rapid fire, “Whaddaya want?” As Reiner had predicted, there was already a bartender waiting for Eren’s call. “On me.”

Reiner shrugged. “Beer for me, somethin’ dark.” He glanced expectantly at Jean as if he expected him to make some sort of decision for himself when Reiner had been the one making the choices all night. He’d tried a couple of things, but that still didn’t mean that Jean had any idea what to do when it came to ordering at a bar. “And a LIT. You like peach, Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“Peach LIT, if you’ve got it.”

“They’ve got everything,” Eren reassured. “Dude, you’ve still _got_ to get with me for a show.”

Reiner let himself fall onto one of the barstools and leaned over the counter with a hand propping up his chin. “Nah, Eren, you know I’m busy as hell. School’s kickin’ my ass.”

“Shoulda done it all online like me,” Eren said. Jean didn’t miss the glimmer of triumph in his eyes.

“Please.” Reiner grabbed the beer the bartender slid his way. “Are you even _taking_ classes this semester?”

Eren pursed his lips in a way that they still turned up at the corners into a smile, and Jean could practically feel the pride radiating off of him. “Nope. Nailed enough jobs and got that album up online. I’m busy enough with that, workin’ steady.” Out of nowhere, he frowned. “Fuck, buzz is wearin’ off.” He turned to Jean. “You smoke or whatever?”

Jean peered over into the glass of whatever had been set in front of him and tugged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Yeah. Need one?”

Eren laughed while Reiner shook his head and took a hearty drink of his stout. “Nah, man,” Eren said. “Weed, duh.” Lowering his voice, “or stronger, if you’re down. My guys can hook you up?” He grinned and stuck out his tongue a bit, just enough for Jean to notice a piercing on one corner of his lip and another ball in the center of his tongue. It was pretty fucking sweet, actually. Jean had always considered piercings for himself but had never fallen into the needle addiction beyond the singular hole in his left ear. Eren’s jewelry wasn’t exactly Jean’s style, though—too bright and obnoxious, not dissimilar from the rest of the cyberpunks getting their groove on in this place. 

It was like Reiner knew that Jean was uncomfortable even before Jean did. “You don’t have to say ‘yes’ to this goon, Jean. Drugs fuck me up too much, so you won’t catch me with ‘em.” In other words, peer pressure wasn’t a thing. Perfect. Jean was probably _just_ desperate enough to be labeled “cool” that he might have taken Jaeger up on the offer otherwise. Why did it always seem like Reiner was reading his mind?

Eren clapped his hand on Reiner’s back in a series of overenthusiastic pats. Up against Reiner’s muscular back and shoulders, Eren’s hands appeared even tinier and more delicate than they actually were. Jean could definitely see what Reiner was talking about when he had mentioned genderfluidity. He was androgynous as fuck, enough so that it was almost hypnotizing. 

“Yeah,” Eren suddenly laughed. “Looks like you’re a fuckin’ space cadet even without anything to help you along.”

_Damn_ it! Jean had been staring again. He could feel his face heat up with what must have been a bright crimson, but he hoped that the dimness of the lights and the multi-colored strobes would hide his distress. Just to be safe, he took a long draw of his LIT, whatever that was, from the straw. Acting natural would make all of this okay, he thought. The rush of the booze in his head made him braver than he might have been otherwise, just enough for him to argue, “Don’t call me that, man.” Seriously, being called a “space cadet” made him feel like he was five.

“Jean’s not used to drinking. It’s enough for him right now.” Was Reiner being _protective_? Jean glanced at him with narrowed yet curious eyes. “That’s a Long Island iced tea, by the way. Looks like tea, tastes kinda like tea, has more liquor in it than you prolly wanna know.” 

Once the decision appeared to be final, Eren shrugged. “Suit yourself. Lemme know if you change your mind.” Then, he turned to Reiner with a shocking abruptness and brought up his shows. Again. Self-centered, much? Jean stared at them boredly, his brain lulled into a stupor at the constant thrum of the music so deep that it may as well have been beating his heart for him. He felt the vibrations in his body, through his bones. It was nice. His lips remained wrapped around his straw, alternating between drinking and chewing at the plastic between his teeth, while he listened to Eren ramble on.

“I _really_ wanna do a solo show somewhere. I think I’ll have the money soon for a small venue, now that the EP’s gone live. I’ve got a following here; people fuckin’ crave my shit.” He laughed. “Seriously. It’s not like I wouldn’t pay you or whatever. You’re really talented, you’ve been at tech for a long time and you even do percussion. Tons of lights guys can’t even keep a beat, but you—“

“ _Eren_.” Reiner stopped him. “Chill out. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Percussion?” Jean’s ears perked up, and Reiner immediately waved it off.

“Don’t worry about it. Jaeger’s makin’ a big deal out of everything. I’m not that great.”

Eren gaped. “Dude, _no_ , I’m not high enough to listen to you being a downer on yourself right now.”

Reiner plucked Jean’s nearly empty glass from his hands and likewise pulled the straw from your lips. “I shouldn’t have introduced you to fruity drinks. You’re an animal.”

The smallest of the guys pouted and finally withdrew his arm from around Reiner. “You’re changing the subject, Reiner, but whatever. More importantly, Jean is getting _schwasted_.”

“Am not! Whatever the fuck that even _means_ ,” Jean protested. As far as he was aware, “schwasted” wasn’t even a word and Eren was just trying to sound hip. It seemed like something he would do, even though Jean had only known him for a few minutes.

Jean watched both Eren and Reiner exchange knowing looks and wondered what he had really gotten himself into. 

“So, I haven’t known you for the longest time,” Reiner began, “but I’m pretty sure the Jean I know wouldn’t be bobbing his entire fucking body to some dirty house beats.”

Jean blinked. He was _bobbing_ to this shit? Sure enough, he was, and he hadn’t even realized it. “Apparently, alcohol ruins my taste in music,” he said with no consideration for the fact that the night’s DJ was actually pretty good and Eren was standing right next to him.

“Ex _cuse_ me, asshole,” Eren protested. “And what the hell is _your_ music taste, then? Linkin Park or some shit?”

Jean’s anger flared because how _dare_ this scrawny kid insult such a talented, influential nu metal band—

Reiner grabbed Jean’s bicep and dragged him away from the bar. “You look like you wanna dance, so we’re gonna dance. Eren, if you make fun of him again I swear I’ll punch your lights out. Jean, same goes for you. Fuckin’ get along and have fun, for god’s sake. I brought you here to relax. Do it. Oh, and Eren?”

“Hm?” Eren grunted.

“If you get Jean another drink, _don’t_ put anything in it. He’s my responsibility tonight, and you know how I am with drugs.”

Eren agreed with a lazy salute, then disappeared back into his mob of ravers. A weird and very unfamiliar part of Jean wanted to follow him. As soon as Reiner had lifted him from the bar and propelled him towards the dancefloor, Jean felt, well, _sexy_. It was weird—he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt confident in himself, but when he glanced down at the tight denim that hugged his legs and the nice shirt Marco had dressed him in before he left for the evening, he felt pretty damn attractive. Maybe it was the booze, but he felt so light on his feet, so in tune with every sway of his hips and extension of his shapely legs. He might as well have been an alternative male model rocking the runway when he slid into the sea of bodies and followed along with their movement.

“Rock out, Jean,” Reiner encouraged from behind him. “I’ll be at the bar, yeah?”

Jean barely heard him. It was nice, though, how no one really seemed to notice him, how he could disappear in this crowd without a single person singling him out, looking at him weird, or anything along those lines. As ridiculous as he may have looked (not that he thought he did look ridiculous—he felt loose and comfortable and, as far as he was aware, he was totally doing this dancing thing right), no one cared. No one would point and laugh, comment on his hair. For once, he may have been one of the more normal looking people around. Even the music was starting to grow on him, even though it was usually far from his cup of tea. 

That night, he’d have to revisit some of the official remixes of his favorite metal songs. He knew they were out there, even though he normally questioned their quality and felt that they took all the purity from the original work.

Time passed, first too slowly and then very quickly. He crossed Eren again in the crowd and, even though Jaeger’s eyes initially glanced right over him, recognition suddenly sparked and they high-fived as if their near-brawl had never even happened. Eren was probably stoned out of his mind again, had probably forgotten all about their initial tension. At some point, Jean went to rest by Reiner again, who was tapping away some message on his phone—probably to Bert. 

“‘Sup? Looks like you’re having fun out there. Saw you run into Eren. Stuff cool?”

“Yep.”

“He high?”

“Something like that. I dunno.”

Eren really must have had a lot of influence around this place, because the bartender had another drink in Jean’s hand within moments. Reiner had one, too, but from the looks of it, it was barely touched. “Don’t worry about it,” Reiner said. “Drink what you want—I just gotta be sure to get you home so I’m taking it easy.”

That second LIT tasted absolutely like nothing alcoholic, unlike the first one. Nothing but the refreshing saccharine sweetness of a Crystal Light tea lingered on Jean’s tongue, and all that dancing had him thirsty. Reiner called over a water. “Booze won’t rehydrate you,” he chuckled. 

Jean hadn’t even realized he was sweating until he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead only to find his skin damp. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and found himself envious of the tank top Eren had been wearing, then blankly carried his drink back into the crowd. His thigh was damp, a sensation which confused him because he wasn’t sure if he had spilled his own drink on himself or just become the victim of someone else’s drunken carelessness. A peek into the remaining contents of his glass gave him no answers—he had no idea how much had been left in there when he wandered from the bar and into the crowd again.

A twinge of something _social_ tempted him, and he peered around for Eren again. When he found him, Eren was even more welcoming the second time. “You’re all right, you know that?” he called over the music’s volume. Jean wasn’t exactly sure, seeing as this entire clubbing experience was something new to him, but he had a feeling that the intimate twists of Eren’s body in his direction were less inspired by the music and moreso by some sort of sexual advance. 

That was new. Somehow, Jean didn’t mind. His actions were blurry, but he may have even returned the favor—

That is, until his stomach turned and rose until he felt it might invert itself right up through his esophagus and out his mouth. The movement of his body halted, then he lurched while his fist came up instinctively to cover his mouth. Fuck.

Knowingly, Eren pointed without judgment towards the bathroom in the corner of the establishment.

Jean _ran_ , more like tripped and stumbled, in the direction Eren’s finger pointed. It was a miracle that he made it at all before finally settling enough to let the contents of his stomach empty themselves halfway into the unavailable toilet. Any other time, Jean would have been disgusted by the state of the restroom he found himself in. It wasn’t filthy, per say, not as bad as it could have been; but Jean had a thing about sharing with others. Even forfeiting half of his bathroom space to Marco back in the dorms had been a bit of an adjustment and something he still wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but _c’est la vie_. Regardless, it was amazing what could be ignored or simply forgotten when one was shakily squatting and vomiting into a toilet. The dampness of the floor or the odd green quality the bathroom’s lights possessed and even the fact that there seemed to be just a little bit _too_ much activity in the next stall over were all lost on him.

It wasn’t a dive bar, by any means. There wasn’t shit on the floor or used condoms draping out of the trash cans, but even the nicest of clubs couldn’t go all night without showing some form of wear and tear. Jean hadn’t bothered or really had time to close the door of his stall behind him, but he felt only a slight amount of shame when he heard the restroom’s main door squeak open and a large body rushing to hover behind him.

“Hey, hey—Jean?”

He vomited again, twice in a row, and couldn’t decide if the foul taste in the back of his throat was worth the relief his stomach felt. Everything spun around him by now, enough so that it was becoming a feat to keep himself upright without straight up grabbing onto the toilet seat. Thankfully, Reiner was there to provide some stability so that Jean didn’t have to dirty himself any further. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Jean heard Reiner’s words only distantly, but he wasn’t so certain of the reassurance’s validity. 

“You done?”

“I dunno,” Jean slurred. That was really up to his stomach, not him.

Reiner wrapped his arms around Jean’s small frame and lifted him, then turned him around so that Jean’s ear was pressed right up against Reiner’s chest. The heartbeat was loud and steady, and for some reason, Jean found it strange. He focused on it and unwittingly internalized the rhythm the same way he had swayed unconsciously to the beat on the dancefloor. Reiner seemed pretty content with this, but otherwise helped guide Jean out of the stall and into the main standing area of the bathroom.

“Wash your face,” he instructed gently. “And we’ll go home.”

As unfocused as Jean was, the way that Reiner gently turned him from his chest so that Jean could face the mirror and the sink was plenty disconcerting. He must have been turned ninety degrees, at most, and yet he might as well have been finishing up a pirouette. Reiner reached over his shoulders to turn on the water, but that was the last thing in the world that Jean was paying any attention to. He glanced in the mirror, let his eyes flit downwards because what he had seen had to have been _impossible_ , then took a deep breath despite the angry churning of his nauseous stomach and lifted his eyes cautiously back up to his reflection.

He blinked, and there was no change.

A scream pierced the stale air and bounced around the tiled bathroom as Jean clobbered backwards into Reiner’s bulk, as far away as he could get from the man staring back at him in the mirror with grimy edges. His hands clawed at his face in response to what he saw—he had to make sure that he wasn’t imagining it.

When the trembling fingertips of his right hand felt shredded flesh and the thick stickiness of blood, the protrusion of a hard cheekbone, he shrieked again and struggled hard enough to escape Reiner’s grasp entirely. Stumbling backwards until he found the next surface sturdy enough to support him, which happened to be one of the corners of the bathroom, it was uncertain whether or not the majority of his focus was headed towards the heaving of his chest, the churning of his stomach, or the phantom-like pains of a splitting headache.

The reflection wouldn’t go away.

Jean’s eyes remained settled on himself no matter how frantically he wanted to turn away or avert his gaze. He gazed with mind-numbed shock at the way his flesh split at the jawbone, the skin of one cheek entirely shattered and his chin and mouth hanging in shreds from a jawbone hanging limp. The more he screamed, the more he heard his voice as nothing but a frantic gurgling, the more he found himself suffocating on the inhalation of his own blood. His eye was still there, but just barely, protruding from its socket and only just remaining steady behind what remained of a closed eyelid. The blond hair atop his head was matted with blood—with each rapid beat of his heart, the sensation of arterial spray escaping his neck overwhelmed him.

Reiner was there, huddling over Jean in the corner and lifting him from the corner with whispered words of encouragement and comfort even as Jean clawed desperately at what remained of his face.

“Bad trip, probably,” Reiner explained when someone else peered in the bathroom—probably Eren. 

Jean vaguely heard, “Dude, I didn’t give him _anything_ ,” but the implications of the conversation were lost on him.

Reiner pulled Jean close to him again and let him back out towards the crowd. They stayed on the perimeter, all the way around until they reached the door, and Jean couldn’t get enough of the fresh air once they were outside. He gulped it down like he had been drowning—in a way, he had been, if his own blood counted as the water. 

“Reiner,” he whimpered. Everything still spun, the traffic lights blurring into circles of light too large for a traffic signal.

“Did someone slip you something?” Reiner’s question wasn’t asked with any pressing urgency, was instead murmured gently.

“Dunno.”

“You brought your drink in that crowd. Who knows. We’re going home. It’s ‘kay. Marco will be there.”

At least Reiner had the courtesy to not pry about why Jean had been prodded into a full-blown panic. Jean wasn’t sure he could handle having to explain himself, if only because an explanation would require a recollection of that horrible thing in the mirror. He didn’t want to feel of his face again, but he knew he had to if he wanted to be certain of anything again. 

The only abnormalities that greeted his fingers were an abnormal dampness—sweat—and heat. He was flushed, hot from dancing and from drinking and from experiencing a panic attack. It made sense. There was some reason to this, logic that Jean clung to like it was the last thing in the world he had to hold onto. 

“It’s ‘kay. Whatever you saw is gone now. I’m here.”

The rest of their trek back to the dorms was an uncomfortable blur, but Reiner got Jean through it, somehow. They stopped a few times for Jean to dry heave into a bush, otherwise managing to keep their pace slow and steady. It was a relief when they reached the front door of the dorms and Reiner caught the front door behind someone else who was walking out. The guy stared with some concern at Reiner, who held the door for Jean but kept one hand on his shoulder to make sure that he didn’t lose his balance stepping over the threshold. In the morning, Jean would berate himself for how stupid and careless he had been, for how much of an embarrassment he was. He likely wouldn’t ever want to look Reiner in the face again, but right now, he couldn’t imagine living without that steady arm to lean on.

“You should stay home from your classes in the morning,” Reiner murmured on the elevator on the way up to the room Jean and Marco shared. “Don’t think anyone’ll notice, so don’t worry too much about it, all right?”

Jean nodded automatically just because agreeing seemed the right thing to do.

Reiner tried the doorhandle to the dorm, and Jean watched it turn beneath his hand. Of course Marco had left it unlocked—he was always considerate of Jean whenever he was out late. Jean had no idea what time it was, so he wasn’t sure if he had expected to see Marco awake. He was, however, surprised to see Bertholdt in their room as well, sitting cross-legged in front of Marco on the top bunk where Marco slept. Jean’s head was spinning, but he didn’t miss the way that Marco’s hand lay on top of Bertholdt’s and how they were murmuring quietly, concentrating hard on something laying between them on the mattress. 

Both of their gazes turned immediately to Jean and Reiner’s entrance. 

“Reiner!” Marco’s voice was the one that echoed concern, but Bertholdt’s expression spoke volumes of anxiety upon the sight of the haggard boys entering the room. The taller of the boys on the bed climbed down right away, with Marco following less nimbly behind. 

Marco retrieved Jean from Reiner’s grip and guided him towards the bottom bunk, but Jean didn’t miss Bertholdt asking where the blood on Reiner’s shirt had come from, followed by the meaningful glance Reiner offered in return. Whatever that look had meant shut both Bert and Marco up—not another word was spoken about the state of Reiner’s clothing. When Marco disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to fetch Jean a glass of water, Jean listened to Bert murmur about how he and Marco had been talking to Annie (whoever the hell that was) while Reiner and Jean were out. There were some other parts of the conversation, too, but Jean was finding it more and more difficult to focus on anything. The bed creaked above him while Bert climbed up again to retrieve whatever he and Marco had left up there. The last thing Jean saw before Marco obscured his vision and encouragingly offered him something to drink was Bertholdt tucking what looked like a large deck of cards into a satchel that hung from his shoulder.

He and Reiner shot Jean a sympathetic look and waved a silent goodbye to Marco, who locked the door behind the boys when they left and then came to sit beside Jean on the bottom bunk. 

Jean appreciated Marco’s silence. He hadn’t expected his roommate to have enough respect or restraint to stay a deluge of questions, so the lack of prodding and interrogation was certainly a welcome surprise. All he said was, “I’ll be up top if you need me,” while he rubbed reassuring circles into Jean’s upper back and then let him be.

By that point, everything was a blur anyway. Jean couldn’t quite discern the sensation of his head hitting the pillow from the crippling nausea that twisted his body—when he sat propped up, the swirling discomfort was at least partially relieved. It still did little to lessen the intensity of the darkness that spun behind his eyelids.

Sleep came soon, an uncertain blackness swallowing him up into the turmoil of nightmares that began with a gunshot. Then, nothing.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, lovely readers! Since my last update, I've received some adorable fanart and created a couple of playlists to accompany this fic. Check them out, if you fancy!
> 
> Fanart: [by Marsyasyamallow](http://marsyasyamallow.tumblr.com/post/123447535627/a-simple-doodle-inspired-by-reach-for-the-moon)
> 
> Playlists: [Marco's iPod](http://8tracks.com/emerylee/indigo-children-marco-s-ipod#smart_id=dj:5370786&play=1) // [Jean's iPod](http://8tracks.com/emerylee/indigo-children-jean-s-ipod#smart_id=dj:5370786)
> 
> Chapter warnings: alcohol mention, emetophobia, drug mention, suicide mention, gore, fluff that may actually rot your teeth out, and Linkin Park

The first thing Jean realized, upon waking from a sleep that contained much less gravity than the waking world, was that he desperately needed to vomit. It wasn’t the spinning of the bathroom’s tile that unnerved him—he had been dealing with that all night, behind the darkness of his eyelids—it was the sudden heaviness his body had reattained upon waking. Instead of floating through the dark, smoky atmosphere of his dreams, his imbalance threatened to pull him to the floor in a crumpled heap. He gripped the toilet bowl, hung his head, and allowed the nausea to curl upwards from his stomach, into his chest and his throat. At last, he let his body convulse and his mouth open to yield an only mildly satisfying dry heave. 

Right. He threw up everything in his stomach last night, in the bathroom at the Basement and on the side of the road on the way home. 

There was another matter that concerned him while he slumped back against the bathroom cabinets. Marco hadn’t bothered to wake him for class. Jean found himself annoyed at first, proof that he had become spoiled by his roommate’s constant doting. Jean was a fucking adult now, and he couldn’t be relying on his roomie for a wake-up call. He wondered how much Reiner had told Marco last night, and that train of thought led to a more and more detailed remembrance of events at the club. 

 _Fuck, what the_ fuck _?_ Jean repeated the question in his head over and over as if imagining the words again and again would help him find meaning in what Reiner had assumed was a trip from drugs slipped in his drink. Okay, so lesson number one was to never drink that much in one night again. Lesson number two—leave the drinks off the dancefloor and out of reach of any nutty raver like that Jaeger kid.

It was too late in the morning (or early afternoon or whatever it was) to make it to class or anywhere else significant, but like hell Jean was going to let himself sit around stagnant in this room after fucking up so badly the night before.  He hated himself, absolutely despised his own guts for wrecking himself the way he did. He hadn't missed a class yet the entire semester, until now--his nails dug into sweating palms when he clenched his fists. He was smart, near the top of his class in high school--probably could have done better if he hadn't spent every waking moment at home strumming aimlessly at his guitar and dreaming of bigger and better things than what he had. It wasn’t like he was incapable. He was just a failure, and in Jean’s mind, last night was solid proof of that fact.

Tugging on the nearest pair of jeans without the smell of smoke and weed and booze clinging to the denim was a more difficult task than he expected. Jean stumbled, fell against the mattress of his bunk and had to lift both hands to clutch at his head that ached and spun with all the fury he felt towards himself. His headache and vertigo were suitable punishments, he supposed. He definitely deserved this. There was no doubt about that.

Clumsily, he brushed his teeth, dragged a comb through his hair, and pushed his wallet into his back pocket with trembling hands. At least the backpack slung over one shoulder and the guitar over the other allowed some semblance of balance. After three or four attempts, he managed to get the key turned properly in his door so that Marco wouldn't chew him out for being careless and leaving it unlocked again.

Jean had a feeling he was stumbling. It was hard to tell, but he knew well enough that taking the stairs would be a bad idea. Elevator it was, then. Leaning up against one wall of the tiny little chamber, he tugged his phone from his pocket to cram his headphones into the jack--but the text notification on his home screen kept him from immediately scrolling through to his favorite playlist and ignoring the rest of the world.

"Text me if you need me to bring anything to you on the way home, okay? Last night was rough for you. Please get some rest. Missing one day of classes won't hurt you,” the first text said. From Marco. Of course. Jean's cheeks burned with irritation and embarrassment and the prickling feeling of nausea when the elevator came to a halt and announced his arrival on the ground floor.

Nearly crashing right into a group of people clambering onto the elevator forced Jean to look up from his phone, but as soon as his feet carried him to the lobby and out of the miniature elevator crowd, his eyes were drawn to the afterthought of Marco's message. "Are you awake yet? Let me know that you're okay?" It had been sent only a few minutes ago.

Another day, under different circumstances, Jean might have been moved by Marco's concern; but this wasn't the time for him to be moved by anything save for his own determination to make up for time lost last night and this morning. A stack of new contacts and phone numbers crushed into the pocket of the jeans he slept in the past night were waiting for him back in his dorm. He had work to do, people to impress, oaths to himself to uphold. There was no time for texting today, would be no lunch breaks, no stops to chat and say hey to--

Who was he kidding?

It wasn't like he had made friends besides Marco and Reiner and maybe Bertholdt. 

_Less people to get in my way._ Jean’s twirling thoughts spun more out of control with every step he took towards the front door of his dorm, but no amount of dizziness could erase the bitterness that pursed his lips and had his eyebrows drawn together to a crease.

A cloudier day would have been fucking nice. He cursed under his breath and kept his head down once he stepped outside into a clear and gorgeous day. Sunbeams shone down on him and glistened off the straw-colored hair atop his head, warmed his skin and settled into the fibers of the black denim tight around his legs. It was miserable, too hot, and just way too goddamn bright.

"Bullshit," he muttered under his breath. "Complete fucking bullshit."

His music playing on max-volume drew him into a land of distraction, a little further from the dangerous downward spiral of his thoughts. Like quicksand or an ocean current, the negativity fought to draw him back in; but singing to the song lyrics in his head and picking out each and every chord, then picturing his own fingering configurations to follow in the .mp3's wake kept him mildly distracted.

His fingers twitched and tapped on his thighs while he played along in his head—a nervous habit he didn't notice until a particularly long gap between tracks when the world came to a too-sudden, grinding halt.

Since when had the bus gotten all the way across campus? The next stop was for the studio--Jean was lucky he hadn't missed it.

The halls were mostly empty, much quieter than the usual cacophony of muted instruments and vocals echoing from the building's various practice rooms. _Amazing. This might just be the only good thing that happens to you all day, Kirschtein._

The silence soothed him, but only because it was temporary, its end holding promise to the sound of his own pick against strings and the pads of his fingers sliding across familiar frets. For the first time that semester, Jean found the big room in the corner unoccupied. The space was usually coveted, claimed by people practicing together or individuals like Bertholdt who woke up at the asscrack of down to go run through their sheet music before breakfast--but today it was going to be Jean's. A window draped with curtains took up most of the outer wall's space. The view from there and the way the sun shone in so warmly was part of what made the room everyone's favorite. 

Jean drew the curtains closed.

If he was honest with himself, he was still mildly drunk. Apparently one night and morning hadn’t been enough to beat away the alcohol taking up too much room in his bloodstream. Last night, when he had been buzzed, he may have been able to get down some quality lyrics--he remembered the way his mind had felt more open and uninhibited, then wondered if doing the same thing again would help him get those lyrics written in his notebook that might have refused to come otherwise. Sometimes, there were lines or notions he considered jotting down before stopping himself because he was immediately convinced they were stupid or worthless. 

This kind of mid-afternoon drunkenness wasn't the same, though--it only left his brain cloudy and heavy behind his eyes, nothing but a nuisance. Speaking of, how many hours had it been since he'd smoked?

The last time he remembered lighting up was early in the previous night, and it was already mid-afternoon, so long enough that he'd get a rush from the nicotine buzz. Might clear his head, too—would probably edge his mind towards something more crisp and focused.

There was the slight issue of leaving his guitar unattended and giving up his spacious, coveted practice room.

Goddamn it, Jean didn't give a shit about smoking indoors. There wasn't a smoke detector in this room in particular, and he could crack the window behind the curtains. Once that was done, he slid his ass down the wall in the corner of the room farthest from the little glass window in the door, drew his knees up to his chest, and took his first drag of the morning. Inhale, ignore the nausea, hold it, eyes closed, exhale. 

It felt fucking incredible. By the second drag, his head was already swimming in a much more pleasant way than it had been on the bus. Balancing the cigarette between his lips, he flipped through the worn pages of the Moleskine until he reached the blank, crisper ones. The comforting familiarity of his cigarette and the coolness of the menthol hitting the back of his throat was enough to keep him distracted from the ways his eyes struggled to unfocus. He'd grab some water from his bag in a second, right after this cigarette. That would help. For now, he needed to get words down. He forced himself to scrawl across one page, having long ago forgotten the brand of anxiety that came with trying to keep a perfectly neat notebook. It was better messy and fucked, he had decided--a better look into his life that way. More personal, more real, transparent.

_Tumbling_

_Inhaling_

_Burnt_

He stared at the grouping of words for a minute, tried to make sense of them, absentmindedly flicked ash onto the carpet and then went for the next three that came to mind.

_Flicker_

_Psychosomatic_

_Fuck_

As steadily as the cigarette wore down, Jean's list of words grew. Single words became short phrases, mostly unrelated--seemingly random trails of thought blurred together into concepts tangible enough to be an inspiration, and then he found himself scribbling so furiously with lead pressed hard against the page that it didn't even matter anymore that his head wasn't working well enough to keep his hand from writing in a straight line. Diagonal lyrics were cool, all the fucking rage--he'd work with it.

A breeze rustled the thick curtains closed around the window, and Jean lit another cigarette to aid him in the creation of words that might, if he was lucky, become something lyrical by the end of the night. Concepts gave way to a story, to a stanza, to something that could be a chorus, and it wasn't until Jean inhaled a particularly burnt mouthful of smoke that he realized he was sucking on the butt of his second cigarette and had filled the entire set of pages beside his initial list of words.

Fuck yeah.

Okay, okay.

Water, right. He had promised himself that, and the heavy taste of smoke on his tongue begged to be eased by the coolness of liquid. He pulled the water bottle from the side pocket of his backpack, the one he reused all the time that had a crinkled label about to peel off because he had never really thought about buying an _actual_ reusable water bottle like a normal human being, then gulped down about a third of it and returned to his smoky little corner where his lighter and crinkled pack of cigarettes lay on the floor beside a pencil with a chewed eraser and his beloved notebook.

Where had his train of thought been again? Right, right.

He remembered, kind of. It was hard to think with much linearity, but he supposed that didn't matter much. Songs told a story, sure, but not all stories had to make perfect sense to the world. It made sense to Jean, the beauty of the words as he strung them together was satisfying--and wasn't that enough?

He turned the page, captured with words the sharp shards of a heart torn down onto the smoothness of the paper--the contrast was ironic, he thought. More and more of his words gave way to metaphor. He was in one of those places now that he loved so much, living and breathing in imagery and a beat tapped out in his head. Time slid on, measured only by the amount of water left in his bottle and a couple extra cigarette butts crammed into one side of the pack.

At some point, when he reached beside him for a sip of water, the gulp he had hoped to feel slicking his throat came only in an unsatisfying dribble from the depths of the bottle. Shit.

Jean blinked, raked his fingers through his hair and in the process paused to inhale the smell of smoke from his own skin. It had always been comforting to him, for some reason, to focus on that scent that was somewhere between sweetness and musk.

He flipped through the pages he had filled since he had slid down into that corner and counted roughly fifteen or twenty—a sizeable chunk, if he was honest with himself.

He figured standing up to stretch his legs and refill his water bottle from the fountain down the hall would be a suitable reward—he had been writing for, shit, how long? Frankly, time had been the least of Jean’s concerns ever since he had first woken up to realize that he was much too late to be able to make class. He checked the clock on his phone and was greeted with another set of texts, from Reiner this time.

“hey man, how u feeling? drink some water”

“had a good time last night”

“sry shit got weird”

Jean scowled at the screen and tossed the phone back in his bag before he had a chance to check what he had originally wanted to see in the first place. He plodded out into the hallway and welcomed the fresh, cool breeze of the AC as it hit his face. Even with the window open, the smoke in the practice room had built up more than he thought. A brief moment of panic overtook him and he wondered if he would get caught, after all. What would the consequences be for something like that?

Okay, so apparently he wasn’t able to make good decisions the morning _after_ he was wasted, either.

_Damn it._

With a refilled bottle, Jean slipped back into the safe haven of his practice room. He was greeted by the long drone of continued buzzing from the top of his backpack where he had dropped his phone. A call, this time. Probably just Marco. Whatever. Jean may have made some progress, but it was nowhere near enough to make up for how badly he had messed up that morning by missing class. He’d deal with the calls later. Seriously, he was an adult, and all Marco did was treat him like a helpless child.

After last night, Jean thought, he must have seemed like little more than that.

He flipped his book back open after silencing his phone and then cramming his earbuds back into his ears. His eyes drank in the words he had written from the beginning, starting with the groupings of three words each, then progressed to the strings of words and eventual stanzas. A frown creased the part of his forehead between groomed eyebrows, the scowl deepening as he turned each page faster and faster, more and more frantically and with reckless abandon. The pages crinkled between his fingers, his stomach turned to remind him of last night's failings and all the failings before that--a subtle guarantee that today was just as much of a failure and that every word on these pages was fucking _useless_.

He hated every letter he had scribbled down, felt pathetic about every phrase and wanted nothing more than to erase them and every other part of himself that had blighted the world that day.

One of the pages tore amongst frantic page-turning that had become a desperate search for anything at all in his journal that Jean might consider noteworthy. The sound of tearing paper was what sent him over the edge. It was satisfying, somehow, to hear and see and _feel_ the physical evidence beneath his fingertips, destroying the creations he found worthless, pathetic--

One by one, then two by two and then in an indiscriminate flurry, he tore the pages from the book and let them fall around him in uneven, crumpled leaflets.

"Fuck this," he spat.

Unsteady hands threw his bag over his shoulder and his guitar case across the other--the soft cover of his notebook bent backwards when he crammed it into his bag along with his remaining cigarettes and pencil. The pages he had torn out remained abandoned on the floor for some unlucky bastard to find and laugh at later.

Jean crashed into the hallway. throwing the door open hard enough that it slammed into Bertholdt on the way out. 

There he was, Mr. Orchestral Fucking Genius, here to practice right after class because however many hours he had already played this morning hadn't been enough.

Jean muttered something even he found unintelligible, and barely noticed the way Bertholdt's little smile reversed into a concerned grimace. "Jean?" he offered. The guitarist would have none of it. He shoved past Bert, sneered at how his height dwarfed even the cello case across his back, and stormed down the hall without turning back.

"Jean?" He barely heard Bertholdt's meek protest behind him, didn't care, didn't give a single flying shit right now. That asshole was the last person Jean wanted to see, if he was honest with himself. There was something off about Bert--he had always thought so. Hell, as far as he knew, Reiner could have just been stringing him along last night, too. There was nothing good about any of these guys, no reason for them to like Jean and no reason for Jean to trust them.

He walked, past the bus stop and past the part of campus he knew well, circling around its outskirts where there were less people and less traffic. He aimed for the general direction of his dorm without any intention of actually returning to it.

The border of campus contrasted with the modern architecture and pristine landscaping of the central quad and surrounding buildings. Jean found himself wandering further down a sidewalk full of untamed weeds and cracked, uneven concrete. Low-hanging branches from overhead fell in his way and he had to step around bushes that protruded out over the sidewalk with their long, spindly branches. 

To his left, he eyed a path worn through the grass. It was barely noticeable, only there because someone had pushed through it once or twice before. He had nothing better to do, he wanted to be alone, and that seemed like a damn good place to do it. Now that he thought about it, he was beginning to wonder if people were even _allowed_ back here. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen another student, and he must have been walking for at least half an hour. 

The little path in the grass was littered with roots and stones that Jean had to be careful not to trip over, especially balancing both his bag and his guitar, but there were enough trees and branches around him that he could grab on to something for support should he reach a spot where it was likely he would lose his footing.

The first time the wire of his earbuds tangled in the foliage around him was the last time, and he tucked them away into his pocket to, for once, engage with the sounds of the outdoors.

That was when he heard the running water. 

That's right, there was a stream or a river or something--he and Reiner had crossed a bridge on their trip off campus last night, and he remembered Marco saying something about going down to the bank to clear up litter with some volunteer group during orientation. It was just the kind of thing Marco would do--get up at six in the goddamn morning to clean some river no one even gave a fuck about. He was too nice, made people like Jean look bad. It sucked.

At least it meant that Jean had a place to go that might be free of sludge and old McDonald's packaging, crushed beer cans and used condoms. 

The path became less and less distinct, but a peek through the tree branches told Jean that he was pretty much right where he needed to be. The tree cover here was thick, preventing the sun from lighting the spot where he dropped his bag onto a mostly flat boulder. A tree sturdy enough to hold his guitar propped up was only a few steps back, and the same number of steps forward through thin branches pushed aside brought Jean to a place where he could dangle his feet over the water that babbled over rocks and clumps of sticks below him. 

His feet hung four feet or so above the water, and looking down at the little eddies of swirling leaves was enough to make his stomach somersault again. He stared out over the riverbed instead, into the trees on the other side of the bank, and breathed in deeply through his nose. This place was actually kind of cool. He was glad he had found it, glad he had discovered a place away from the world where he could forget about the roommate he had fucking sex dreams about and said roommate’s two best friends who were guys too big for their own good. They dwarfed Jean, made him feel small and insignificant, but out here in the woods where trees towered above him and boulders hundreds of years old sat heavy and lodged in the dirt, everyone seemed small. They weren't really so scary, they weren't like the guys Jean had dealt with in high school.

Jean rested his chin on his knees and wrapped his arms around his calves. He waited it all out, let the alcohol fade from his system and his head return to the clarity he was used to. He rolled with the punches his stomach threw at him and pretended that everything would be all right. It would be, wouldn't it?

He was far away from home now, from his past, was at this school instead and working towards his stupid delusion of a dream.

Little by little, the peek of sunlight between the leaves lowered in the sky, but it wasn't until the water below Jean turned a shade of pinkish-grey that he realized the sun was setting and it was getting too dark to find his way back out of the woods and towards central campus again.

He sighed, lifted himself carefully, and felt the way his bones and muscles creaked with the sudden movement from a still position. 

His phone was dead by now, which may have been a good thing since seeing any more texts or missed calls would have just sent him back into a pool of miffed annoyance that would have harshed the mellow he had finally managed to obtain.

It was easier than he had feared it might be to find his way back to a part of campus that seemed familiar, and it turned out that he had been camping out much nearer to his dorm than he had realized. Only two or three minutes’ walk out of the woods brought the sight of his building over the horizon, and another few put him in the lobby. 

He wasn't exactly looking forward to being trapped within the presence of another person, but he was feeling sober enough to be hungry for the first time that day and would have done practically anything to grab a snack from the stash he shared with Marco.

Unlocking the door to their room was much easier than locking it had been earlier. Thankfully, steadiness had returned to Jean's hands and the hallway no longer seemed to be spinning around him like one of those tunnels in State Fair fun houses.

The door was pulled from Jean's hand before he could push himself inside, and there was the whole fucking gang waiting for him in their dorm. Marco stood at the other side of the door, yanking it away from Jean's grip and pulling him into a hug that seemed weirdly desperate, while Reiner sat hunched in the desk chair that was way too small for him. Bert stood in the middle of the room, hugging himself and looking generally uneasy.

"The hell?" Jean asked, his face pressed into the side of Marco's neck.

"The hell?" Marco repeated, incredulous. He pulled away and held Jean at arm's length. "We're the ones who should be asking what the hell? Where have you been?"

Jean would have been angry, was going to respond with some quip about how Marco wasn't his mother and he had no obligation to tell him where he had gone, but then he saw the way Marco's face was flushed, the corners of his eyes red and little shimmers of dried tear tracks connecting the freckles down to his chin.

"I-I... The practice rooms."

Bertholdt silently held out a stack of papers, mismatched in size and with jagged edges. "You left these," he said quietly, swallowing. 

“ _After_ you left there. Bert said you were, like--"

When Jean reached out uncertainly to take his torn journal pages from Bertholdt's hand, he saw him shake his head at Marco and silence him.

"We knew you were upset, man," Reiner interjected. "And you weren't answering your phone. You were super fucked up last night, so we were worried."

Marco turned his back to Jean to lock the door, but Jean didn't miss the way he wiped at his face and sniffed before turning back around.

"My phone died..." Jean protested. His voice was weak, because he couldn't even bring himself to be frustrated anymore. Frankly, he was in complete shock. No one but his own mother had ever cared about him this way, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "I'm fine. Just hungry."

Jean watched Marco's eyes flicker towards the crumpled papers in his hand. "You didn't seem fine," Marco whispered. His voice, usually so clear and strong, choked with tears.

"Hey," Reiner said. "Bert told you he'd be okay. It's cool. He's here, now." One of Reiner's big hands reached out to touch Marco's bicep in a comforting gesture, but Jean could tell that Marco's calm was only feigned.

Jean took advantage of the weird silence to set his guitar up against the wall and empty his pockets of his earbuds and cigarettes, dropping his backpack on the floor by his bed and carefully tucking his abandoned pages into the notebook that now looked like it had been through hell and back. Reiner bent over in the chair and reached beneath the desk to grab a Gatorade from the fridge. He tossed it to Jean, who picked through their snacks and shuddered at the way the crinkle of packaging broke the silence.

"We need to talk to you about something," Marco finally said with forced bluntness.

Jean was pretty sure even the alcohol hadn't flipped his stomach as hard as Marco’s announcement just had. Immediately, Jean’s skin prickled, the hairs on his arms stood on end, and he felt a heat on the back of his neck as his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and made it hard to swallow. "We need to talk to you about something" was the shit nightmares were made of, holy fuck. And seriously? Were they teaming up on him?

Jean glanced up at them, let his eyes wander between the three of them, and waited.

"We're all worried about you," Marco continued. "And not just today. We've _been_ worried about you. But then--" Marco and Bertholdt exchanged glances, and Reiner picked up where the other two were afraid to continue.

"Some of the stuff you wrote scared us, Jean. You can tell us anything, you know?"

Jean was livid. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Are you fucking _serious_?” he said, his voice rising with each word. "You read through that?" His finger pointed furiously towards his backpack where he had stored the papers Bert returned to him.

"We wouldn't have normally," Marco explained, "but Bert said something seemed off about you, and we couldn't get in touch with you."

"You know _nothing_ about me," Jean spat at Bert. "Fucking _nothing_. _None_ of you do. How dare you--"

Reiner stood up and towered over Jean. "Because we care about you, whether you want us to or not."

Marco's hand gripped at Jean's shoulder and squeezed. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice soft again when Jean refused to meet his gaze. "Please, Jean."

Damn it, what was it about Marco that made Jean unable to refuse him? If it was anyone else, Jean would have socked them in the face by now. But this was Marco, the man whose voice was so powerful it could somehow command Jean at will the same way it held audiences captive and stunned classmates and professors in the studios.

Once their eyes locked, Marco asked him with so much emotion in his tone that Jean barely knew how to process it all. "Do you really want to die?" he asked. "Or are those just lyrics?" His voice rose barely loud enough for Jean to hear it, but the question bore into his very core. "It's a facade, right Jean? You don't really want to, do you?"

The tone of Marco's question changed when Jean didn't answer right away, became more biased like he was leading Jean to deny it all because that was the answer he wanted to hear.

Jean worried his bottom lip between his teeth until he thought he may have tasted copper.

"I don't know," he finally choked out. All at once, he realized that was truthfully his answer. He had no idea. The concept of death was appealing, was something he wouldn't be adverse to, but he didn't know if he would have the guts to act on the urge when it came around every so often.

Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry. He tugged himself away from Marco's grasp and made sure to keep his eyes averted from Reiner and Bert when he swiveled back towards his bed. Back to the others in the room, he kicked off his sneakers and rummaged in the closet for sweatpants and a hoodie. He had fallen asleep in his clothes last night, and the thing about sleeping in skinny jeans was that the seams of the denim pressed into Jean's skin as his limbs twisted in sleep and left reddened marks that had itched all day. That wasn’t going to happen again. He made a conscious effort to _not_ look at the box in the back corner of the closet, where he knew all of Marco's weird witchcraft shit hung out during the day. That was just another point of annoyance that he didn't want to think about or deal with right now. 

All too aware of the three pairs of eyes on him as he pushed between the little crowd that had assembled in his dorm room, Jean shut himself in the bathroom. Piece by piece, he shed his clothes, then stared at himself in the mirror once he was stripped down to his underwear. 

Dark circles stood out under his eyes, his hair was tangled and frizzy from a day spent outside and without a shampooing; and he may have been imagining it, but his cheeks seemed gaunt. He realized he had vomited and then gone a day without eating, and he was skinny already. For the most part, Jean liked the way he looked, but if he was honest with himself now, he would confess that he looked like shit. 

He stared into his own eyes, leaned over the sink until the sharp tip of his nose was only a centimeter or so from the glass--a dull _thud_ echoed in his head. Jean started, every muscle tense and his thin chest heaving to get some air. 

The hell?

He peeled back the shower curtain, expecting to see a bottle of shampoo having fallen or broken open, but everything was undisturbed. A glance up at the shelf above the toilet confirmed that everything was in its place.

The moment Jean caught sight of his own reflection in the corner of his eye, he regretted having turned back around. 

Even clearer than last night, he watched as his face lay open and pulsing, strings of muscle dangling where his cheek had used to be--the same cheekbone he had seen beneath his skin, the same prominent bone that made him look so thin, now stood out white and gleaming amongst the slick crimson.

Jean screamed, pounded himself out of the bathroom and back into the line of sight of the three boys who claimed to care so much for him. He stood in the middle of the room, all their eyes on him in just his shorts, as he clung to his face with one hand and grasped at his chest with the other. Breathing was becoming a struggle.

"Jean?"

Predictably, Marco was at his side in an instant, strong grip on both of his biceps and guiding him towards the bunk. "Hey, hey, hey," he said, sitting Jean on the bed and settling beside him.

"The fuck did he do to me?" Jean asked in a voice somewhere between a growl and a whine. 

"Who?"

“ _Eren_ ,” Jean spat.

"He saw it again." Jean saw the way Reiner's jaw was set strong. His eyes bore into Marco, while Bertholdt kept his attention on Jean.

"The _fuck_ are you looking at?" Jean panted when Bertholdt's soft brown eyes lingered for too long.

It was cramped in the bottom bunk, and Marco had to struggle to keep from knocking his head against the bottom of his own mattress on top; but he did his best to guide Jean back into the corner and shove a couple of pillows behind his lower back. "It's okay," Jean faintly heard him whispering when he wasn't distracted by the rage that was building every added second that Bertholdt kept looking at him. "It's okay, Jean. Close your eyes, okay?"

For a reason he couldn't explain, Jean winced when Marco pressed the back of his hand against the side of Jean's face that had lay open and raw in the mirror. "Don't think you have a fever or anything--"

"Drugs wouldn't still be in his system," Reiner contributed--Jean thought his words seemed forced.

"Will someone get him to fucking _stop_ staring at me like that?" Jean's words sounded much less brutal than he had hoped they would. "Can I just--Fuck, can I sleep? Since when is my room the party bus for freak central?"

It was true. They were all freaks, really. They were all into that weird paranormal shit and telling the future and casting bogus spells or whatever the flying fuck it was that Jean didn't give a shit about--and he was goddamn _sick_ of Bertholdt glaring bullet holes through his forehead.

"Yeah," Marco answered. "That'd be best, I think."

Really, Jean didn't know why he was tired or why he wanted to sleep. It was still early in the night compared to when he normally slept, and he hadn’t regained consciousness until midway into the afternoon. He huffed into his pillow. Whatever. Sleep had always been easiest, he remembered. It was one of those things he could do whenever he didn't want to do anything else, whenever he hated himself so much that his energy drained into specks just enough to keep him willing to live. He had slept through most of high school, if he was honest with himself. Appointment after appointment and doctor after doctor, even one of those hellish sleep tests--nothing had shed light on why Jean couldn't get enough of that nothingness waiting behind his eyelids.

The medicines hadn't helped, even that one anti-depressant that was supposed to give him energy when he took it in the morning. The only thing about _that_ drug was that it made him dream, had given him dangerous ideas in a world where he had used to find comfort.

"I'll be right back, Jean," Marco said.

Because he was bitter, because he wanted to be contrary, Jean made no effort to acknowledge Marco's gentle words.

"See ya, Jean," Reiner murmured.

Lucky for Bertholdt, he decided to stay quiet. Jean was pretty sure he would have killed him if he had tried to say a single damn word.

He listened to the deadbolt on the door as Marco turned it out of place, then the way the weather stripping stuck to the threshold, and finally the sound of the latch clicking back into place. 

Jean pursed his lips, buried his face into a pillow, and heaved out a massive, shuddering sigh. With the breath, he let out all of his fear, all the toxicity that was building up in him, and remembered the way the river had swirled beneath his feet. He remembered something from high school, from the few times one of his teachers had forced him to see the school counselor during his study hall. There had been some breathing exercises, mindfulness or something, and even though Jean had never cared to admit it to anyone--they had kind of worked. 

Well, sometimes.

He put himself right back on that little overhang he had found in the woods, recreated the way the ground had felt beneath him and the light sounds of the leaves rustling above his head. In his mind's eye, he watched a leaf tumble down the current, catch against a rock protruding from the water's surface, then drift away again until it was out of sight. 

He wasn't sick, anymore. The alcohol was all out of him, and whatever drugs may have been in his system would be gone tomorrow.

But, hadn't Reiner said there wouldn't have been drugs in him, anymore?

The door opened back up, but Marco didn't say anything upon entering and Jean decided he would rather just pretend to be asleep than deal with any more bullshit that night. Whenever the leaf on the river disappeared out of sight, another one took its place, and the drowsiness of sleep crept up on him with each passing eddy and current. The telltale sound of the closet door sliding open caught Jean's attention, the shifting of a heavy box and the rustling of a couple of hangers, then a momentary, lingering silence before the door opened and shut again. The sound of a key turning the lock from outside told him that anyone in the room was gone for good now, but he was perfectly fine with that.

Drowsiness clouding his brain, the last conscious decision Jean made for the evening was to set an alarm on his phone--missing another day of classes wouldn't do anything for his self-esteem.

Jean sat at the river until the sun set, the orange rays of the day’s remaining light peeking through the leaves to tint the water. He expected it to be dark soon, but instead of darkness the setting of the sun brought only red. The leaves stopped falling, but there was still some semblance of matter in the water, drifting in the current around the rocks. The water slowed minutely, the leaves thickened and spread into glimmering clumps, and the next time Jean inhaled he couldn't escape the overwhelming twinge of copper in the air. He was lying down, on his back, could see the river in the sky above him, could only watch but not move when gravity refused to hold it up any longer and drops of the sticky, crimson liquid began to fall on him like rain. Heavier and heavier the rain fell, soaking his clothes and seeping beneath his body until the sheets were saturated and he was drowning in it--he couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, could only feel a feeble rush of air whistling through a mouth that wouldn't work. His sight gave way first to red, then to darkness--he heard something like faint footsteps rushing up the stairs, his mother's voice screaming, and then nothing.

Peace wrapped him up like a blanket, holding him in its warm embrace, and he plodded down the same set of stairs he had been familiar with since childhood. The sound of the mailtruck outside had him decide to pop out into the sunlight for a moment to get the mail.

The letter of acceptance into this university awaited him, but the envelope contained a couple of things that it hadn't in real life. There was a picture of Marco, but the angle was as if it was a screenshot from a CCTV recording. Jean dumped the remaining contents of the envelope into his palm--a bandaid and a planchette.

Jean's eyes shot open, and the adrenaline rush through his veins had him flailing around in his blankets for this phone. Fuck, had he overslept again? The alarm must not have gone off, and--

Oh. 

He exhaled.

It was fine. He had beaten the alarm, somehow, and for the first time in a long time he felt oddly rested.

What had he just thought yesterday about weirdos like Bertholdt going to the practice rooms before class? Jean pursed his lips. _Think I'll be a weirdo today,_ he thought, because an uncanny alertness prodded at his senses and had his mind itching to compose. He had homework to catch up on, but he could use some of that to help with the songs for the gig and--

He peeked over the edge of the top bunk to see a lump of sleeping Marco.

Jean wasn't sure he had ever seen his roommate asleep before, now that he thought about it. Marco was always the kind of guy to be awake first, and his early classes usually meant that he was out of the room or at least fully dressed and ready by the time Jean even had to think about waking up.

He wondered where Marco had gone last night, remembered the way he had looked at Jean so desperately. It had been hard to tell whether he was angry or just scared, but whatever it was had Jean feeling almost guilty about it this morning.

Remnants of his dream forced their way to the front of his mind, but by the time he had gathered what he would need for the day and was headed out the door, the memories of it had all but left him. 

When Jean arrived at the studio, he peeked into the same practice room he had claimed yesterday--surprisingly, he didn't find himself bothered by Bertholdt's presence in there, his cello between his legs and his eyes so focused on the sheet music in front of him that Jean didn't even have to worry about being noticed.

Maybe a smaller room would be better, anyway, Jean mused. As nice as it would have been to be able to spread out yesterday (had the day actually yielded some success in practicing), there was still something daunting about a large practice room. He would rather be confined and comfortable, he thought, which was why one of the rooms in the back of the building suited him just fine. Shockingly, his good mood had persisted through the bus ride and walk across campus--if Bertholdt had noticed him, he might have even waved. He supposed to could forgive the guy for being awkward as hell. It wasn't like Jean was much better.

He bypassed his notebook this time around and went straight for his guitar case. Today, he'd play without an amp--Marco had suggested they go acoustic at first, and even though Jean hadn't agreed just yet, he knew that a lighter sound would be more suitable for a first-time gig.

A glance at his phone told him he had an hour and a half before he started needing to think about breakfast and class. His time in the practice room that morning was the polar opposite of the previous day's disaster. Jean's fingers moved naturally across the frets. New notes, then new bars, then entirely new lines of music came to him easily--so easily that it was almost a struggle to get them all written down before he was tempted to just keep playing. He didn't bother making adjustments as he went, knowing full well that if he stopped and labored over every note like he had done with his lyrics yesterday, his self-criticism would only send him spiraling again.

Today would _not_ be a fucking repeat of yesterday.

It had been a while since he had played anything on his own that wasn't hard and fast. The more fluid, relaxed movements of his wrists and fingers as he threw his whole body into the rhythm of his music was soothing. Maybe this was why people like Bert practiced so early in the morning. Yeah, it sucked that he couldn't play from his bed, but the energy that lit up his bones was the reason why he played, why he clung to his guitar like a lifeline.

This was his oxygen. Jean would have had it no other way.

The progress he made in the following hour was nothing short of astounding, and it was only the hunger gnawing at his stomach that propelled him to the dining hall for breakfast.

Normally, Jean struggled to pay attention for the entire length of his classes--even the ones he had the most interest in remained difficult for him to engage in. Today, he filled the gaps in his attention with scribblings in his notebook and--

Torn edges peered out from the middle where he had crammed yesterday's wreckage between the pages. Grimacing, he flipped through the shreds and blinked. Why was it that today, they didn't seem so bad?

Memories of yesterday cascaded through his brain, specifically of the way Marco had looked at him when he had walked through the door.

Jean opened his text messages, went straight to Marco's conversation, and let his thumbs hover over the keyboard.

"Wanna practice later? Have some stuff I want you to listen to," he typed.

Once he had pressed send, he realized that may have been the first conversation he had ever initiated with Marco. Maybe that would serve as a suitable apology for his fuck-up yesterday.

A reply came quickly, and Jean struggled not to overanalyze Marco's answer. Marco was usually the kind of guy to fill his texts with smiley faces and other emoticons of his own creation--as cheerful in text as he was in person. This time, his reply contained no semblance of happiness or excitement, just, "I'll be at the studio around 3."

Okay, so there was nothing _inherently_ angry about it, but it just didn't seem, well, like Marco.

Jean fought the worry twisting his stomach and shifted his attention to taking overly-detailed notes from the lecture presentation instead. It was a productive way to keep himself distracted, he guessed. 

_Did_ he owe Marco an apology?

He didn't really think he had done anything wrong, but they had all been so upset and--

_You called them freaks, Jean._

Right. There had been that.

Jean sighed audibly, not realizing until after the huff of breath had left his lips that he was in the company of others. Luckily, no one in the seats surrounding him seemed to notice.

The way time dragged on until 3 o' clock was agonizing.

Jean had decided to wait until he saw Marco in person before even attempting any sort of botched apology. He fucked around on his phone on a bench by the front door of the studio so that Marco would see him as he walked in. It wasn't until a shadow blocked Jean's sunlight that he looked up to see Marco standing over him. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," Marco answered.

Jean's eyes shifted somewhere to the left, because it was getting weird staring at Marco for this long with such discomfort building between them. He wasn't accustomed to having to carry a conversation with his roommate--up until this very moment, Marco had always been the more talkative one.

"I, uh," Jean scratched at an itch on his head that seemed suddenly severe. "You want to listen to something I've been working on?"

Marco nodded towards the door, a silent indication that he would follow Jean in.

_Maybe it's not you,_ Jean told himself. _Maybe something else happened today, like he had a test or something or he didn't get good results from an audition..._

"This okay?" Jean threw his thumb over his shoulder to one of the empty rooms.

Marco hummed in the affirmative and set his bag down in the corner, then took a seat on the floor against the wall and glanced up expectantly. “Do you feel better?”

Marco’s suddenly blurted words had Jean turn around from where he knelt on the floor by his case, startled. “Huh?”

“Do you feel better?” Marco repeated. Jean couldn’t help but notice that the words seemed forced.

But at least Marco was _speaking_ to him. As far as Jean could remember, this was the first time that Marco had displayed any unease at all when it came to communication. 

"Lots, yeah. Thanks."

The smile Marco offered him put much of the tension in Jean's shoulders at ease. The familiarity of the way that Marco’s lips turned up at the corners and his cheeks dimpled around his freckles was just what Jean needed to feel at least partially reassured. 

_Doesn't mean you can get out of apologizing, fucker._

It was hard for Jean to apologize. He wrapped his head around the thought as he lifted his guitar from the case and seated himself in the practice room chair. He knew the way he sat when he played was weird, not the typical stance or one that would be considered conducive to an effective performance. But he was the kind of guy who did everything with his own flair (and who could barely keep his legs still). He plucked absently at the strings, stalled under the guise of tuning what was already perfect.

"Yesterday sucked," he began awkwardly.

_That's not the way to apologize, idiot._

"I just needed to be alone." A pause followed before Jean stammered the next words out. "Sorry I worried you. Not used to have texts to answer, I guess."

It took a huge mustering of bravery, but Jean made himself look at Marco again. His roommate wasn't stupid--he knew the guitar was in tune. Might as well face this like a man.

"So...thanks."

Marco's nods were slow and considerate. "'Course, Jean. Just...the three of us have been through some stuff, too. We know how it feels."

Jean bit his tongue, fought the urge to argue that Marco wasn't him and that none of them really understood him at all. Damn, he needed to stop being such a drama queen.

"And," Marco continued. "We'd just really hate to lose you."

The next part of Jean's apology was rushed and out of place, he was well aware. But that didn't change the fact that he was _going_ to get it out, dammit. "Sorry I called you freaks.” The pause between his words was short enough to disallow any regret. "I know about the box in the closet. And the way Bert looks at me really creeps me out."

"He does that to everyone," Marco said. "It's the way he is."

"O _kay_ ,” Jean said, "but I don't get it, that’s all. I'm not about that supernatural shit, I guess. I don't really believe in it." 

The look Marco gave him was a complicated one, full of emotions and sentiments that Jean couldn't pretend to understand. In his mind, the only force beyond their own dimension was music. Music was powerful, music could move people in ways that nothing else could. Music stuck around long after one was dead and gone. The echoes of Jean’s guitar and the lyrics in his head were what moved him and kept him going. Those were the only spirits in his life.

"That's--" Marco said, then paused. "That's okay." He spoke with the tone of someone who _needed_ to talk further but didn't have the willpower to do it right then. "But it's important to us," he added. "We won't shove it in your face. It would just be great if you didn't, you know."

Jean swallowed. "Yeah, I was an asshole. I know."

"I'm glad you're feeling better."

Jean's heart thudded in his chest. "Me, too." There was that smile, that look Marco gave him that sent Jean’s brain tumbling into all sorts of confused places it had never been before.

"Can I hear what you've been working on?"

Jean blinked. Oh, right. That was why they were here. "Y-yeah," he said. "It's, uh, well I hope you like it." Saying that was the understatement of the century. Jean craved Marco's approval. ”So, kind of a simple opening, easy stuff for the verses. I think your voice can carry it, really."

Wow, had that been a compliment?

One corner of Marco's lip turned up in a smile. "You're putting a lot of faith in me," he chuckled, and Jean pursed his lips.

"I don't have a hell of a choice, I don't think. But here."

He set a page from his backpack up on the music stand, unfurling its dog-eared corner and referring to the chicken scratch on the page every now and again while he played. The melody was a simple one, calming and slow at first but giving way to a hint of the speed and intricacy Jean craved by the time the bridge came around. He played through the chorus once, paused a couple of times to tell Marco that "this part isn't right" and "think I wanna do something different, here." Out of habit, Jean kept his gaze mostly down on his fingers. Making eye contact while he was playing wasn't a strong point of his, but he had to admit that he was itching to see if there was that _look_ on Marco's face.

Sure enough, there was, and enough so that Jean's fingers fumbled until he was forced to stop playing altogether.

Marco giggled at him. "What?" he asked. "Is there something on my face?"

Jean could barely describe how relieved he was to see Marco back to his usual self. He had been terrified for a while that he had seriously fucked up whatever relationship they may have had blooming. Jean was damn lucky that Marco was a forgiving guy. Hell, Jean was damn lucky _period_. He shrugged it off and rolled his eyes. "Whatever, that was pretty much all I had anyway. Rest is more of the same."

"And you have lyrics?" 

Jean may not have been the best at picking up expression and emotion, but it was impossible to miss the unobtrusive glimmer in Marco's eyes when he asked.

"Well, yeah, like a first draft."

Marco grinned. "Going to teach me?"

A realization crashed down on Jean like a sack of bricks. Right. Marco wasn't in his head, and Jean hadn't actually transcribed anything but the lyrics themselves to paper. "Fuck, I didn't--"

"Then sing for me."

Jean’s eyes widened like Marco had just suggested murder. “I don’t—“

“Yeah, you do. You can. Everyone can.” Marco smiled. 

Jean felt like he had just been run over by a truck. He shook his head feverishly and firmed up his voice. “No, you don’t get it. I _really_ don’t sing. I used to, but I don’t now.”

Marco tilted his head to one side, a gesture that made him look much too innocent when he was unwittingly manipulating Jean to do whatever the fuck he wanted. “For me?” he asked.

Pretty much every coherent thought in Jean’s head gave way to Marco’s command, and he swallowed past the lump burgeoning in the back of his throat.

“Everything sounds better when it’s the composer who sings it,” Marco explained. “No one’ll be able to sing it like you do. Not even me. Just give it a shot. No big deal. Promise. If I can get the gist of it, we can try it together and see how it sounds.”

Jean racked his brain for a solution that would both please Marco and also prevent him from having to sing. He considered humming, or just waiting until tomorrow to practice once he had gotten all of the music on paper. His chest expanded with the fullness of his inhale, preparing for the first note, and then he deflated with a dejected huff.

“I’ll get it down real quick,” he muttered. “While you’re warming up. Won’t take that long.” A little ache tugged in his chest. Disappointing Marco was the _last_ thing he wanted to do, especially after yesterday, but there were some places where Jean had to draw a line. Singing in front of anyone else was one of them. He had promised himself that he would _never_ do that again, and that was a promise to himself that he fully intended to keep, especially when he had already gone to such great lengths to assure he wouldn’t go back on his word.

He didn’t miss Marco’s look of defeat, but there was no way that he’d be pushy enough to press Jean on the issue any further. Marco smiled, though even that was laced with disappointment, then stood and threw his shoulders back. Jean took Marco’s place against the wall after grabbing a couple pages of blank sheet music, then listened to the vocalist force a few yawns, hum from the middle of his pitch down to the lower notes, then all the way back up to the higher tones.

If Jean hadn’t been so occupied with scribbling on his sheet music, he might have recognized the slight tightening of his stomach as envy or even admiration.

The nonsensical warm-up sounds eventually gave way to Marco practicing other pieces he had been working on, one in particular that Jean wasn’t familiar with—probably from one of Marco’s classes. It wasn’t rock or metal or anything popular enough to be on the radio, so like hell Jean had any idea what it would be. Marco continued on as if Jean wasn’t there, providing a backdrop of vocals while Jean worked. 

At one point, Jean heard the small click of an auxiliary cable snapping into place in a headphone jack while Marco hooked up his iPod to the little set of speakers in the corner of the room opposite Jean. Marco must not have noticed when Jean set down his pencil and straightened the sheets now filled with a song of his own composing, because the beginnings of an acoustic track drifted to Jean’s ears. It was a song he knew and knew well, _very_ well. Marco inhaled so that the introductory notes to the song’s lyrics could flow out on his exhale, and when he sang, Jean knew the words were for him.

 

_When you feel you're alone_

_Cut off from this cruel world_

_Your instinct's telling you to run_

 

_Listen to your heart_

_Those angel voices_

_They'll sing to you_

_They'll be your guide_

_Back home_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics used are from ["The Messenger"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ec2RlGgNIUs) by Linkin Park.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are looking like they're going to stay pretty long, but I'm not complaining! A hearty helping of happies and sads and spoops, please enjoy the update. As always, heed the warnings below!
> 
> Warnings for alcohol use, drug use, self-harm mention, lots of profanity, Jean getting really gay, Jean getting really salty, Jean getting really salty while secretly gay.

Midterms came and went along with the seasons, leaves on the trees warming up while the weather cooled down. The usual bouts of self-doubt, countless hours in the practice rooms, more and more pages of Jean's notebook filled--all of it was indicative of a particularly difficult week when project after project and exam after exam were scheduled in rapid succession. The time he and Marco spent together was in relative silence, flipping through music theory and history slides in their dorm room. Talking and social time was reserved for the occasional meal in the dining hall and, of course, practicing their songs. By now, Jean had a couple songs of his own very near performance-ready. Marco had put in some input of his own--Jean had been skeptical about combining their musical styles at first, but he discovered quickly that his roommate was talented in a very important way for their collaboration. He adapted easily to the tone of Jean's music, seemed to understand at least in theory the style that the guitarist was going for. Edits and modifications didn't tint Jean's work with the influence of another but instead built on his strengths. With each passing week, Jean realized more and more that he had underestimated Marco. Bertholdt had been useful a time or two as well, picking up on the parts of the melody that seemed just a little bit off and tweaking them to perfection. He was, rather obviously, the most talented of anyone Jean had met at this school. Luckily, his shyness and unwillingness to intrude on Jean and Marco's project kept his contributions to a minimum. Had he suggested any more, Jean would have wanted him to back off. This way, it was easy to keep his jealousy in check, because the attention was still on him. He was the primary contributor, it was his lyrics which would be getting publicity. Just because Jean's composition wasn't as great as Bertholdt's yet didn't mean that it wouldn't improve. He was only a freshman, after all--Bertholdt had been doing this two years longer than him.

Earbuds plugged into Jean's ears as always prevented him from hearing the door unlock, but he glanced up to see Marco enter with a triumphant lift of his arms. The door closed behind him, and Marco tilted his head back to the ceiling to release a victorious cry, "Done!"

Jean knew immediately what Marco was referring to. He plucked one earbud away and flicked a thumbs up in his roommate's direction. "Nice, man. I got one more project due at midnight."

"You waited until the last minute?" Marco prodded.

Jean scoffed. "Naturally."

"But hey, after that, no more exams for us until December."

"I've got a quarter exam."

"And I have a recital," Marco finished. "But it's not a midterm or a final. Less pressure, right?" Jean watched his eyebrows furrow a little and his smile waver. Jean knew the feeling of forcing himself to believe that something would be okay, even when anxiety knotted in his stomach on a near-constant basis. "When you get yours turned in, let's do something fun for the weekend, okay?" It would be the only time in a while that they wouldn't be blasted with homework.

Jean smirked. "By 'fun,' you mean practicing, right?"

"Well, yes, a little," Marco chuckled. "But you should take a break, too. We've been going full throttle for a week and a half."

Jean smacked the space bar on his laptop to pause iTunes and tugged the other earbud away from his ear--the sign that he was finally admitting to at least a small break. Out of habit, he checked his phone and saw an unread message waiting for him on the lock screen.

"You text me earlier?" he asked, swiping his thumb to access the text.

"Nope," Marco said, right as Jean's eyes scanned over a number not logged in his contacts.

A moment of silence, then, "Oh, it's Eren. 'The hell did he get my number?"

Marco boosted himself up to his own bunk and then hung over the edge to talk to Jean--a pattern that had become pretty regular for them as of late. He knew that Marco could have offered some reasoning, something like "well, you were fucked up off your ass, Kirschtein," but luckily for Jean's self-esteem Marco didn't choose to go there. "He says he feels bad about what happened and said we could use his recording equipment for the demo. He's got equipment?"

Jean peeked up to Marco's bunk in time to see his roommate nod. "Yeah. He's been putting EDM out for a couple years now. Took him a while to get started, but anyone can push through if they're prolific enough." Marco grinned and nodded his head towards Jean's phone. "It's pretty amazing, really. He's got a cool setup with his roommates. This weekend?"

"Yeah."

"Tell him we'll be there!"

Had anyone else suggested Jean's response like that, he would have been annoyed, but there was something about Marco that toned down every suggestion he made into a gentle encouragement rather than a command he expected to be followed. _He could convince anyone of anything_ , Jean thought, and found himself thinking about Marco's pagan stash of goodies in the closet for the first time in a while. It hadn't come up in conversation ever since Jean had called Marco, Reiner, and Bert freaks--he had been more careful to watch his mouth since then, and there had been other things to occupy his time anyway.

Still, Jean guessed there was no reason not to. "As long as he doesn't spike my fucking drink. One more goddamn hallucination and I swear to god I'll kick his ass 'til he can't sit down."

A hint of exasperation tinted Marco's words. "He's not going to spike your drink, Jean. He didn't the first time. Eren's not that kind of guy."

Jean shrugged and watched his own thumbs tap out a response to Eren's invitation. The smudged remnants of black Sharpie stained a couple of Jean's nails. It may have looked like shit, but Jean didn't care; and the toxic taste of the marker on his nails kept him from nervously biting at them while he worked. The past week had been a nightmare--an old bandaid wrapped around the tip of Jean's left middle finger was enough indication of his stress levels.

"'Kay," he said flatly, none too excited. "I told him we'd be there tomorrow at, like, 2."

Jean was way more excited than he let on--he just didn't want to seem like an overeager idiot. Just because Eren had recording equipment didn't mean that he and the DJ were going to be friends. Jean would tolerate his shitty raver ass if it meant getting to record with quality gear somewhere he could pop outside for a quick smoke. There were the studios at school, of course, but the rooms were small and stuffy and usually packed with reservations weeks in advance. No doubt that recording at Eren's place would be a hell of a lot easier, but Jean's typical paranoia twisted his thoughts into a fear that Eren was only doing him a favor because he expected something in return.

A buzz of the phone's casing told of Eren's near-instant response.

"cool man," the text read. "see u then (^_^)"

Jean scoffed at the nontraditional choice of emoticon and remembered the cybernerds at his high school. They had always had a thing for l33t or whatever the fuck that was--Eren was clearly just as much of a loser, as if the fluorescent loose tank top, hip hop pants, glow bracelets, and neon jewelry hadn't already been enough of an indication.

"Nap time," Jean thought he heard Marco announce right before he realized he had majorly spaced out. His eyes refocused and mind cleared just in time for him to murmur something in the affirmative when Marco wished him luck on the project.

It wasn't that it was a difficult assignment, just time-consuming, and Jean had a habit of drawing out absolutely everything until the deadline unless it was music he made for himself and not for school. Greater than half of the remaining evening was spent humming to his own music and reading his own lyrics over and over to try and perfect the rhymes, envisioning crescendos and decrescendos in all the right places, aimlessly browsing the internet and catching up on all the new music on his Soundcloud feed. Only three hours or so were spent actually finishing up his project, two of which were forced out between 9 and half past 11 when Jean really felt the pressure of the midnight deadline.

Marco was in and out of the dorm doing laundry and taking a shower--something Jean only knew because he noticed brunette hair sleeked back with water, freckled skin glowing, and the way Marco had a bit of trouble getting in and out of the door carrying a laundry basket that was filled just a bit too full. Midterms had not been kind to either of them. The room was far from tidy despite Marco's usually pristine cleaning habits. For the most part, Jean made himself ignore the clutter, or at least fool himself into thinking that he could ignore it. It distracted him more than he let on, but actually picking any of it up would have consumed both time and energy that Jean wasn't willing to forfeit.

All at once, his pent-up energy from being curled up in his bed and desk chair in his pajamas all day unleashed itself. He slammed his laptop closed and lifted his arms in a victory pose of his own to imitate Marco's, forgetting that he was in his bed at the moment and the metal frame supporting Marco's mattress loomed only a bit over him. It was the slam of his knuckles against the metal and his stream of curses that had Marco poking his head over the side of his mattress with concern, not the victorious fist pump that Jean had envisioned. Fuck, he was such a clumsy dork. He was literally embarrassed by his own existence.

"You okay?" Marco's gentle voice was laced with concern.

Jean growled and crawled out from his bunk-cave. "Yeah. Forgot there was--never mind. Wanna get fro yo?" The dull gnawing that accompanied a rumble of Jean's stomach reminded him of how he had neglected eating for most of the day in favor of procrastination.

"You're done?"

"Yep."

"Nice," Marco congratulated. "11:58? Good timing."

Jean rolled his eyes and shuffled through the sparse clean clothes remaining in his side of the closet. "Don't rub it in," he yawned. Finally, he settled for a pair of washed out jeans with tears in the knees and studs on the pockets, a pair he had worn two or three times before now but hadn't gotten dirty enough to warrant a trip down to the laundry on the second floor yet. Besides slipping his feet into a pair of worn-out Doc Martens and tugging on one of his zip-up hoodies that fit so tightly he never bothered to zip it up—like he would want to anyway. That would look stupid.

Marco opted to stick with his sweats. Jean had to keep himself from grinning when Marco pulled a sweater on over his shirt. It was just nice enough to fool someone into thinking that Marco may have put some effort into his outfit—effort that contrasted with the lazy choice of loose sweatpants. It wasn’t like Jean gave that much of a shit. He supposed he could handle hanging out with a guy dressed like Marco. It was midnight at the end of midterms week, and they were going to get frozen yogurt. Like anyone would give a flying fuck at that point.

“Jean?”

Jean blinked, let an unattractive grunt slide past his lips. “Eh?”

“Are you okay?”

Um, yeah?”

Marco giggled. “You were staring at me.”

 _Oh,_ fuck, Jean thought. _Now I’m no better than Bertl._

He had to resist the urge to palm himself in the face. _Double fuck. I just called him_ Bertl _._ That was the nickname Reiner and Marco affectionately used for Bertholdt, and here Jean was throwing it around in his head like he was actually fond of that tall, lanky creep. Okay, so maybe he was. A little.

It was pretty amazing how quickly Marco moved when there were sweets involved. He was already standing in the hallway holding the door open for Jean by the time Jean finished his thought. A cool Fall walk and two cups of frozen yogurt was just enough motivation to have the boys content and sleepy, as if they had needed any other reason to pass out than the fact they had finished a long week of exams.

For once, Jean didn’t dream—a refreshing change—and noon had already rolled around by the time he decided to drag himself from bed once and for all.

It was a pretty easy walk to Jaeger’s place a mile or so off-campus. In the summer heat, a distance which would have been near unbearable was just long enough to get Jean and Marco’s hearts pumping. They popped into a convenience store on the corner and grabbed a few snacks to throw in everyone’s direction.

“How do you know these guys, anyway?” Jean murmured. Lugging a guitar, a backpack, and a bag of groceries was taking more of a toll on him than he thought. Either that, or he was just really out of shape from sitting inside and moping all day. If he was honest with himself, it was definitely the latter.

“From a Pride event last year, actually. Armin seems shy but he’s actually a pretty intense activist. He gets a lot of flack for it, but it’s honorable, really.”

Jean hummed in appreciation. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever really cared about something so much as to consider becoming active in a community besides music, but no one had ever seemed to appreciate that as much. There were enough musicians, already, Jean supposed. Who needed more?

“You’ve met Eren already, so you know about him,” Marco continued. “His sister lives with him and Armin—she’s doing HRT, too. Started around the same time Eren did. And Armin is pretty much the sweetest, so ever since then he’s really gone above and beyond to support them both.”

“What about you?” Jean asked. “Reiner said something about you liking dudes once.”

Marco’s flushed cheeks accompanied a sheepish grin. “Yeah. I’m quieter about it than Reiner is, but he insists on dragging Bert and me to events all the same. I guess it’s not all bad—we _did_ meet these guys. I’m just,” Marco paused in Eren’s yard, a few feet from the door. “I didn’t have the best coming out experience.”

“‘Eyooo—“ The front door burst open, and there was Jaeger’s all-too-familiar voice. Jean remembered it with surprising clarity given all the other things he _didn’t_ remember about his one night with Eren.

Eren nearly tackled Marco in a hug, which was a little funny to watch considering the height difference Marco had on him. “‘Sup, Jean?” he called over Marco’s shoulder. “Weird to see you sober, dude.”

Jean frowned. Eren was just the kind of guy to rub all the things in that Marco had done such a good job of avoiding since that night. “Yeah, fuck that.” He laughed it off, played it cool, made himself believe that he didn’t care. Obviously, Eren still liked him enough to have him over to record, so it wasn’t like he disapproved or anything. Actually, Jean had a feeling that Eren was the kind of kid who _respected_ people who got fucked up every night.

A blond boy with shaggy pale hair that sat right at his shoulders poked his head out the door upon hearing Eren’s commotion. From Marco’s earlier descriptions, Jean knew him as Armin. It was weird, being this social and seeing Marco interact so cheerfully with others—Jean had always known that Marco had a social life outside their dorm, but it had been hard to envision something he didn’t have for himself.

Armin took the bags from Eren and shuffled them inside, motioning for the others to follow him. “Let them set their stuff down, Eren, geez…”

Guitar and backpacks discarded in the corner, Jean and Marco were finally free to move freely and allow introductions to flow into the living room. Their place was modest, spacious enough for three people to live comfortably but only just, the walls covered in posters and the blank spots occupied with bookshelves filled to capacity.

Armin offered his hand to Jean, and his blue eyes smiled. “I’m Armin.”

Jean’s handshake was weak, half-hearted, evidence that it wasn’t something he did too often—but Armin didn’t seem to mind in the least. Instead, he peeked between the counter and a set of overhanging cabinets that separated the living room from the kitchen. “Mikasa?”

While Eren blabbed on and on to Marco about a topic that Jean had lost sight of almost instantly, a slender figure slid with such grace from the kitchen into the living room that her feet may as well have not left the floor.

A modest black dress with capped lace sleeves graced her body, flowed down to just above the knee to give way to fair, olive skin and eventually a pair of boots much like Jean's, though in much better condition and printed with a pink floral. Jean barely knew which part of her to look at first--his brain could process no part of her, and he feared he was staring. It was hard not to with dark lipstick softening a square jaw, a septum ring decorating her nose, and gorgeous red and pink carnations inked up and down each arm.

"I'm Mikasa," she said quietly. She offered her hand to Jean with a firm confidence masked behind the effort of dainty grace. A red bandana was tied around her wrist, and Jean wanted to drown in the warmth of her strong grip. He felt the heat rising in his face and twisted himself back towards whatever conversation Marco and Eren were having. Before, he wouldn't have given a shit about what the cyberpunk had to say, but now he was looking for any excuse to distract himself from devouring Mikasa with his gaze.

"Jean," he murmured in response once he was halfway turned from her.

"We've heard a lot about you," Armin offered. Aviator-style glasses perched on his nose, and he grinned. He seemed genuine enough, at least calmer than Eren; and Jean could definitely use some mellowing out right then.

Jean tilted his head. "From who?" Surely Eren hadn't waxed poetic about Jean's epic fuck-up, and from the way they were all greeting Marco with such enthusiasm, it was like they hadn't spoken to Jean's roommate in a long time.

"Reiner and Bert live a few houses down, between the convenience store and here." Armin pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of the street from whence Jean and Marco had come. "Reiner's really fond of you! Bert, too, but he's quieter about it."

Jean closed his eyes. He really couldn't escape them, could he? He swore those giants were fucking everywhere, creeping into every aspect of his life.

Eren had already fallen on the couch and propped his feet up on the table--Jean watched awestruck as Mikasa sternly shooed his feet back down. "We eat off that, you know," she scolded, but Eren blathered on without shame like he had barely heard her.

"Siblings?" Jean asked Armin.

"Oh, Eren's family adopted Mikasa when she was young. The three of us grew up together. She's in the art program, same school as you. I'm in creative journalism."

 _More like she_ is _the art program_ , Jean thought. She was certainly gorgeous enough to be on display.

Fuck, he felt like such a lecher.

Mikasa took a seat on the other side of Marco while Armin disappeared into the kitchen to procure a few bowls for the chips. Jean, meanwhile, was left standing awkwardly in between, not assertive enough to seat himself stiff-backed on the couch but not feeling quite enough camaraderie with Armin to follow him around like a lost puppy. There was the clinking of glasses, and Armin passed a couple of ice-waters to Jean over the counter. "One's for you, the other's Marco's. Have you recorded anything before?"

Jean shook his head while he tapped Marco on the shoulder from behind the couch, then lowered the water in front of him. Marco glanced up and offered a sweet smile. Mikasa only eyed him with caution in her almond eyes, and Eren decided that changing the topic to humiliate Jean even more was apparently the "in" thing to do.

"So," he blurted. "Any more shenanigans since we hung out?"

By "shenanigans," Jean assumed that Eren meant drugs or booze. Jean shook his head.

Jean watched Armin take a seat on a beanbag in the middle of the floor, on the other side of the coffee table. He pointed to a chair beside him and motioned for Jean to sit down. "Stop reminding him, Eren," he said. "You know I've only been that drunk once in my life and I _still_ don't like to talk about it."

"Yeah," Mikasa added. "You're the only one here who thinks more than a buzz is any fun." She reached across Marco to flick Eren's nose, and he yelped in the same overexaggerated way that he did everything else.

"So have you ever recorded before?" Armin asked in an effort to change the topic. He directed his question to Jean on the chair, who shook his head and found himself ashamed of his answer. "Not professionally or anything. On my computer once or twice in high school. Turned out shitty."

Marco spoke up, quick as always to ease the social tension that tightened in Jean's shoulders and had him swallowing past a hard lump in his throat. "'S okay! First time I recorded anything seriously was my first year, too. Not everyone gets started as early as Eren," he laughed. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

Even one corner of Mikasa's velvet-colored lips quirked up when she added, "There might be some people who listen to your first tracks who _wish_ you could have contained yourself. Some of those were pretty bad."

She was blunt with him, that was for sure. Eren pouted, and Jean found himself liking Mikasa even more now that he had watched her put down Eren so easily. That was at least amusing, and she could get away with it since she was his sister.

"Ugh, _whatever_ ," Eren said. "They're lucky I started as early as I did or I wouldn't have had the money to get the equipment I have. _Plus_ , Reiner is _finally_ going to do lights for one of my shows, holy _shit_."

Armin raised an eyebrow. "Is _that_ how he convinced you to let Marco and Jean use your studio?"

"Normally, he doesn't let anyone touch that place," Mikasa explained.

"Oh?" Marco was clearly interested but not upset, while Jean felt humiliated. He _thought_ Eren was doing this as a favor for him, because he felt bad about what happened at the club. Apparently not.

"Okay, so _maybe_ that helped change my mind a little, but you guys're making me sound like a massive prick. So, to prove I'm _not_ a massive prick, wanna check it out?" He bounced up from the couch and didn't wait for an answer before practically vibrating towards the back of the house. Quick footsteps on stairs indicated he was disappearing upstairs. Jean watched Marco and Armin lock eyes, and then there was silent permission given.

In a little line, they progressed up the stairs with Mikasa in the lead, until they found themselves in a small room with more tech and recording equipment than standing room. Some boxes were piled haphazardly in the corner, a couple of them torn open and filled with an assortment of old CDs and what looked like crumpled sheet music. An old and dusty keyboard was propped up against the wall with a music stand, its replacement new and shiny in the middle of the floor near Eren's soundboard and turntables. In the opposite corner of the room, near the door, a desktop Mac sat on a desk amidst a pile of clutter. It was pretty clear that Eren was the only one who did any work in this room--Jean had a feeling that neither Armin nor Mikasa would have left such a mess.

Nonetheless, it was fucking _awesome_ , and Jean found himself more than green with envy.

"Damn," he muttered while Marco excitedly exclaimed something much more tasteful and with much more cheer. Marco wasn't the type to be jealous, Jean knew that much. And when music was involved, he was just more than happy to be surrounded by his own element.

"This is sweet, Eren."

Jean pursed his lips and pushed a thought from his head that insisted Marco was cute when he was in awe.

Armin and Mikasa hung back in the hallway, just outside the door, because it was pretty obvious that they wouldn't be able to fit in there comfortably even if they had given it a shot.

"Yeah, I know." Jean sneered at the way Eren affirmed Marco's compliment so proudly, so casually. "So I've got it all set up for an electric guitar and vocals?"

"One song's acoustic," Jean interjected, and his face and shoulders fell suddenly as he turned to Marco. "Fuck, we didn't bring the acoustic I rented." Armin was quick to pipe up.

"Gotcha covered!" he said, his voice disappearing down the hall. He reappeared a few moments later with a guitar in hand that he passed over to Jean. "I _do_ have a minor in music," he explained.

Okay, so Jean was pretty sure he liked this guy. He was at least sane, and Jean could look at him without his heart beating a million miles per hour. He couldn't say the same for Eren, regarding the first, and then Marco and Mikasa regarding the latter.

Eren fiddled a bit, ran Marco and Jean through everything a time or two to familiarize them with the recording process while the two of them sipped on their waters, then led them back downstairs.

"If you think you can get it," he said, "we'll just hang down here. It's too fucking crowded and your asses will blaze up _fast_ with all that body heat. Beer and food for when you're done is in the fridge." Jean made himself half-grimace, half-smile at Eren's nerdy thumbs-up, then headed to retrieve his guitar from against the wall.

Before he disappeared upstairs with Marco somewhere behind him, Jean figured he should offer some gratitude. "Thanks," he said upon turning around at the base of the stairs. "This is cool of you." It was an understatement, but if Jean let on how excited he _really_ was he would ruin the image he was trying to maintain. He had a lot of making up to do in the "cool" department in front of Eren, and he found an inexplicable sense of pride in keeping up appearances in front of Mikasa.

"Yep," Eren waved it off and disappeared. By the time Marco joined Jean at the base of the stairs with their music folders and a fresh glass of water, Jean could hear the clink of a bottlecap hitting the counter behind them. Apparently, when Eren had offered beers to everyone, he hadn't intended to wait for Jean and Marco. That kind of figured. Jean wasn't honestly sure what else he expected. How the fuck did they _have_ beer, anyway? Eren was his age, Jean was pretty sure, and so were Armin and Mikasa.

Marco offered an explanation in response to the confusion painted so clearly on Jean's features. "Eren's got all kinds of people," he sighed. "Don't worry about him. He's _usually_ pretty responsible."

Hard to believe, but whatever. Jean would take Marco's word for it.

"You're kind of quiet?"

Jean shrugged and slung his guitar strap across his chest. "Little nervous, I guess." He fingered a few quick scales, warmed up his fingers and limbered up his strumming arm. Even with scales and arpeggios, he kept beat and breathed in time. It was all a part of getting his whole body into the music, becoming one with the instrument hanging off his body. The guitar would support him as much as he supported it, caressing its neck and getting loose enough so that his execution wouldn't hold that stiff, forced sound of a beginner guitarist.

As always, Marco was quick to reassure him. "You really shouldn't be. We've practiced a _lot_ , and it's not like this is a performance. We mess up? We can try again. Don't even have to do it all in one day if you want."

Jean shrugged. "Might as well," he said, always the over-achiever.

Marco smiled, and it made Jean's heart beat that much faster. "I had a feeling you'd say that. It's probably best not to be a perfectionist anyway. In theory, we could spend weeks on each track, but this is a portfolio not an album. It's not the biggest deal in the world."

Jean frowned. He was torn. On the one hand, it bothered him that Marco seemed to care so little for what was clearly one of the most important moments of Jean's life thus far. It _was_ a big deal, a _huge_ fucking deal. But, on the other hand, Jean told himself to be reasonable. He knew Marco hadn't meant it that way, and he knew that his roommate was right.

Jean watched Marco take a sip of his water and zoned out to the noise of his vocal warmups. He made some final adjustments to his setup, checked some cables, and secured the bulky headphones over his ears to accustom himself to the sound of his music playing at a concentrated volume straight into his ears. One moment, he tuned Marco out, and the next he focused on becoming one with his roommate's voice as much as he bonded with his own music. He strove to work with Marco, keep it all fluid--and then his eyes caught those sweet freckled cheeks. Jean was glad he had looked up now rather than during a recording, because he found himself so drawn into the way that Marco's mouth moved, his lips sculpting every note. It was beautiful. _He_ was beautiful. He looked so content when he sang, a little smile perking up the corners of his lips. Warm eyes gleamed with all the emotion and contentment that came with the vocalization of Jean's lyrics--Marco had bonded with the words more than Jean had ever expected him to. A memory flashed through his mind, the recollection of how he insisted that Marco wouldn't like his kind of music the first day they met. So maybe it was true that Marco's hard drive wasn't full of nu metal and punk rock, but that didn't mean that he lacked appreciation for Jean's creative efforts.

Jean also remembered a time when he had felt strange holding an acoustic. It was too light and somehow too bulky, didn't sit right against his body and in his arms. He had made assumptions too hasty, he realized. Had assumed that he and Marco could never find a happy medium between bright and brooding, light and heavy--and yet the songs Jean held so close to his heart now were somehow all of that. Together, he and Marco were contemplative, both energetic and soothing--the composition was a journey, the performance a reward, and Marco simply the most delightful treat.

"Hey."

Marco lifted his eyes abruptly from where they had been focusing on his mic's settings.

"Hm?"

The way Marco looked at him, eyes so wide and face so flushed with excitement, almost had Jean forgetting the words he had been so intent on saying.

"T-thank you."

A few months ago, Jean would never have guessed that he could be successful at anything, much less a collaboration with another human being that was nothing like him, or so he thought. He would still never sing again, but _damn_ would he play. He would play his soul out, fibers of his being coiling around each string and launching into the atmosphere in the form of sound waves. And he would do it with Marco at his side.

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. They hadn't even started recording, _definitely_ hadn't secured any gigs or even the slight hope of one; but this was a step forward too tangible to ignore.

Marco tilted his head, curious. "For what?"

Jean's lips pulled into something between a smirk and a grimace, his form of a grin.

"For this." His heart pounded in his chest, he was all too aware of the way his chest expanded with every breath.

Marco offered a smile in response, a silent "you're welcome" that Jean _thought_ said much more than "you're welcome." He didn't want to assume anything, so he wouldn't.

He and Marco exchanged glances, popped their headphones back up on their heads, and stared into each other's eyes. Jean's foot began to tap, he kept his gaze straight on Marco, and was allowed to proceed with a simple thumbs up.

"One, two, three, four--"

It was a lot like their practices, really. Different environment, a bit more equipment, but it was comfortable and safe. Jean let himself do what he did best and disappeared into the rhythm, let his body carry the crescendo up until Marco's quiet introduction. He toned back, let Marco shine, and this time made it a point to keep his eyes away from his roommate's face. To lose himself in distraction again would only bring mistakes and hesitation that they didn't need clogging up their tracks. The pressure built, piece by piece, in Jean's chest with every passing bar of music. It was perfect so far, there would be no mistakes--Jean wasn't sure what he would do with himself if he fucked this up. Starting off with something careless, something miniscule and stupid, would only destroy his confidence for the rest of the--

He hadn't even realized the sweat slicking his palms and the shaking of his fingers until the quick, tricky movement that came with rapid succession bar cords slipped him up and he twanged out of tune.

Jean wanted to keep going. He clenched his jaw, steeled himself through the mistake even though he wanted nothing more than to slap himself across the face, because he remembered the rule of music and of performance--"The show must go on."

This was a performance now, in a sense. He and Marco were performing for _themselves_ , performing so that the world could share in their talent and creation. There may not have been a physical audience, but who knew how far these demo tracks would spread, how many people would judge their futures based on four measly tracks imbued with the leaked contents of their hearts and souls. Jean caught Marco's reassuring glance, the silent instruction to keep it up and not miss a beat, but the growing hatred and pressure building inside Jean had him losing track of the rhythm, screwing up the precision his fingers needed to create the song he wanted--his knees were shaking, his shoulders and neck stiff with tension, and then he forgot the bridge altogether.

" _Fuck!_ " he cried when he couldn't take it anymore and his music came to a halt entirely. He felt blood pulsing through his veins, pushing his arteries in a steady beat and spreading up to his face that flushed with anger and frustration and downright embarrassment. "Fuck, sorry. Shit."

A hasty jerk of a motion brought the back of his hand to his forehead, and he swiped his bangs back. The pressure against his skin eased at the prickling that crawled beneath it, the little inklings of want for self-harm that poked and prodded beneath skin that he wanted to abuse. The guitar hung from him, unsupported, as he rubbed madly at his arms and tightened his grip around his biceps.

"Hey, hey," Marco said. He slid his headphones so that they hung around his neck and rested his gentle fingers reassuringly on Jean's shoulder. "You're fine. It's fine. No harm done, 'kay?"

Jean found his glass of water offered up to him, and if for no other reason than to make Marco happy, he took a sip. "Y-yeah, thanks."

"Look, we've got time to record each track three or four times. We'll pick the best one at the end. And if we have to, we'll come back next weekend. It's not like this equipment is going anywhere."

It was honestly infuriating how much power Marco's smile alone had over Jean. As much as Jean felt he was disappointing himself, he wasn't disappointing Marco; and that made things at least bearable.

"Let's try again. We're just warming up. Not to mention we're not used to," Marco waved his hands in a vague gesture, "all of this stuff. You want to try one of the covers first?"

It seemed strange to admit that Jean was more familiar with songs written by others than the songs he wrote himself, but his own creations had only been with him a couple of months, whereas the two covers they were including on their demo were songs that Jean had played on repeat more times than he could count over the years. Over time, he had made those songs his own, had let himself revel in them during the worst of days and the best of days. They came as naturally to him as breathing and blinking.

"Yeah," he mumbled. If nothing else, getting through one song without a mistake would give him a confidence boost; and Jean was the kind of guy to ride on highs just as much as he dwelled on lows.

They geared up again, Jean cleared his head the same way he emptied himself of thought when he let himself wander within the endless expanse of his music library.

The song's close took him genuinely by surprise, but he felt it in his bones the same way he would feel the chill of an oncoming storm--though this chill was much more pleasant. Marco's voice quieted, and Jean rode the outro to the end with flawless, delicate movements of his fingers. The final, fading resonance of the concluding note diminished with Jean's exhale, and there was the satisfying silence that Jean learned to recognize at the end of every piece.

Marco nixed the recording and rewarded him with a gleaming white smile and a high five.

"First try. _Nice_."

Jean barely even paused before rushing into his next suggestion. "Again," he said. "Let's run it again. Best of three, right?" He was grateful when Marco indulged him throughout the next two recordings with barely a pause between them. Jean was losing himself in that state where time became only a flitting concept and he could play for hours on end without ever thinking about the progressing arch of the sun outside.

The next track, one of their originals, proceeded almost as smoothly--the only mistake was on Marco's part, and the second of the three recordings had been near-perfect, by far well enough to make its way to the demo.

Halfway done, they took a break, popped downstairs for more water, and found Armin and Mikasa sharing a joint in the kitchen.

"Eren went to the store for cigs," Mikasa explained.

"Coulda bummed some of mine," Jean said, and Armin actually chuckled. "Eren is _weirdly_ particular."

The haze of smoke lingered a little, the lazy breeze carrying it out the cracked window at a pace not quite fast enough to keep the kitchen air free.

"Speaking of--" Jean said, and tugged a crushed pack from his back pocket. Armin followed him out to the porch, boosted Jean's high even further with compliments of his performance. The recording room wasn't exactly soundproof--it was something they had all learned to live with.

"You mesh so well with Marco's voice," Armin mused. " _Way_ better than some of the collaborative projects he had to work on for classes."

Jean let smoke fall from his mouth and thought something along the lines of him meshing well with Marco _period_ before realizing that was awfully pretentious of him to assume.

Smashing the butt into an ashtray half-full on the little metal table outside, Jean followed Armin back in and found Marco sipping a freshly-cracked beer. Jean was surprised to see him drinking anything but water during a recording session, but Marco held the bottle out to him and motioned his head towards the stairs. "We'll share this," he said. "Want to finish up?"

If nothing else, seeing Marco sip on the beer made Jean feel like it was okay for him to do the same for the first time since he'd met Eren. It was just one beer, he thought, or rather half of one. He remembered how he had been curious about that creative buzz, how the alcohol had erased Jean's more restricting inhibitions. He had a feeling Marco was drinking if for no other reason than to prove to Jean that it was okay for him to do the same. The nicotine already had him loosened up a bit--a few quick swallows of booze would only keep it going.

After the first two run-throughs of their third track, Marco tucked the beer into the corner and gave Jean a teasing reprimand of a look. "Too fast and we won't get through the last one," he chuckled.

Okay, so Marco was probably right. Besides, they had saved the first track--the one Jean had fucked up so royally--for last. Knowing what awaited him brought an intense focus and determination that definitely shone through their final recording of their second cover. Marco lifted his eyebrows in an approving way that suggested that would _definitely_ be a keeper.

"One more!" he said. "It's all you, Jean. This is _your_ song. Own it."

Marco told Jean to own it, and he did. This time around was entirely different from the first. Instead of tension knotting his muscles and stiffening his movements, he felt more free and loose and expressive than he had all day. Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the cigarette, maybe it was just that he was finally warmed up and basking in a rare streak of confidence. Most likely, it was all of the above. Having Marco beside him helped, too, and Jean realized that he may never had felt so alive as he did in that moment. Collaboration was indeed all it was cracked up to be. Jean had been hurting himself all these years he had refused to work with anyone else. Sure, getting along with people was hard. Agreeing on ideas was a pain. But with Marco, there was nothing but simple, clean resonance.

Jean's head spun with the rush of it all, with the adrenaline that came with creation and performance and expression.

They had an hour's worth of music recorded, maybe more; and after Eren was done with it in a few days, it would be narrowed down to 15 minutes of the best stuff Jean and Marco could muster. They were going to rock this. Fuck, they already _had_ rocked it.

Lost in the moment and forgetting what it felt like to hold himself back, Jean yanked his headphones off with a rush and let out a holler when Marco flipped the recording switch off for the final time that day. "Holy _shit_ , man!"

He nearly tackled Marco to the ground with a hug, didn't even think about it until his arms were already wrapped tightly around Marco's neck.

He loved the way Marco embraced him back, held onto him and swayed with the unstoppable buzz of their excitement. It was pretty much perfect. Maybe even as perfect as that last track had been. So much for screw-ups. _Fuck_ screw-ups. Jean had destroyed that song just the way he had dreamed he could when he first wrote it--and Marco's voice made it even better.

They bundled their instruments and equipment up in a hurry before rushing down the stairs to ride out their successful high with their friends. Eren was back by now, and he slid his joint in Jean's direction. Without hesitation, he took a drag, watched as Marco popped open a beer of his own, and let himself fall onto the couch. When his world slowed down and his head floated like a balloon drifting amongst the atmosphere, he found himself staring not at Mikasa, but at Marco; and for the first time in his life that wasn't a dream, Jean thought about kissing him.

 

"Dude, come the fuck _on_." Eren's rage and the endless slams and rattles of the foosball machine filled the walls of the dorm's little fifth-floor rec room. Marco and Jean hung out with Armin at one of the long tables off to the side. While Armin's nose was buried in a book chock-full of post-it notes and neat highlighting, Jean and Marco were crowded around Jean's computer poking around for more venues to advertise their now-complete demo. Eren had cleaned it all up for them a couple weeks ago, burned some CDs and emailed them a digital version, and Jean had been gung-ho to get submitting as soon as possible. He had dug around in his messy desk drawer until he found the business cards he had picked up during the night out with Reiner, and Marco had produced a couple new sources of his own that, according to Reiner, were way better than the first places he had sought out.

Eren and Reiner, meanwhile, were absolutely wrecking the foosball table and probably breaking all manner of volume regulations.

"At least he's wearing himself out before Mikasa gets home from her show, later. When she's tired after an exhibition opening, she does _not_ put up with his BS," Armin mumbled into his book. Marco chuckled. "Yeah, after spending the whole evening with Bertl, coming back to him is going to be a shock to her system, huh?"

Jean remembered something about her and Bertholdt both having obligations in the concert hall that night, part of the same program. Normally, at least a part of the crew would have been there for support, but tickets for this event had sold out. It was a Halloween art show, after all, and a heavily publicized one at that.

Instead, they settled for a night full of sweets from the Dunkin Donuts attached to the dining hall across the street. It was a pretty good consolation prize, anyways, and an evening much more suited for the length of Eren's and Jean's attention spans.

Reiner, Armin, and Marco had no trouble sitting through a classical concert. Eren and Jean, on the other hand--

"You are _totally_ tilting the table, man!"

"'S not cheating, Jaeger!"

"You're bigger than me. I can't do that!"

Reiner laughed, the sound loud and sincere. "Then you're not trying hard enough-- _ooooh_!"

The ball slammed into the back of one of the goals, on Eren's side, Jean presumed, given Reiner's cry of victory and Eren's frustrated growl.

"Best two outta three!" he demanded, but Reiner was already pulling a seat out across from Marco and Jean. "Nope. Get one of these guys to play with you. I'm going to end the night with a win."

Eren pouted and gave his goalie a final, defeated spin for the hell of it. "No fun," he mumbled.

"Bad sport," Reiner retaliated.

Armin gave them both an exaggerated _look_ \--one of those raised-eyebrow side-glances that silently demanded they be more mature.

Even Jean couldn't help but smirk at the sight of Armin reprimanding Eren.

A tiny bell tone punctuated Armin's ardent expression, and Marco nudged Jean in the ribs. "Email," he said.

The one word was all Jean needed to hear to be all over his laptop in an instant. Any thoughts he had been entertaining about challenging Eren to a shitty rec room game were buried beneath the way his belly fluttered and his throat tightened with the same anticipation that came from opening any email these days.

For the first time in two weeks, the tightening of his gut had been for good reason. "It's a bar," he said quietly. Then again, more loudly as the subject heading of the email set in, "Guys, it's a fucking _bar_."

He felt Marco's breath on the back of his neck and the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to have a look for himself, saw Reiner and Armin and Eren perk up at wait with wide-eyed anticipation.

"They had a cancellation," Jean murmured as his eyes skimmed the email and he processed its contents aloud. "Dead week, right before finals. They need someone to-- _fuck yeah_!"

Jean's thoughts raced faster than he could communicate, and his fingers flew across his keyboard in a song of clicks and taps constructed by his skilled fingers. "Wait, what, _what_?" Marco stopped him. "What are you-- What did they--?"

He was leaning in closely enough that Jean knew Marco could read what was onscreen, and pausing to explain wasn't something that he had time to do at the moment. This was a _race_.

"There was a cancellation," he heard Marco explain, all quick words and no breaths, to the others. "They're having trouble filling it because it's dead week, and most of their gigs are students who've got concerts or something right before exams."

"Do _you_?" Reiner asked immediately, and Marco shook his head. "No, it's the Monday night of finals week. I've got nothing during dead week but rehearsals--"

"And _now_ a gig!" Jean completed, his voice absolutely bursting with proud triumph.

While Jean skimmed the email for mistakes with a hurried eye and a heart beating with so much frantic energy that it seeped into the room around him, Marco finished explaining. "They liked our demo. They're interested. But they're waiting on another guy to get back to them. It sounds like it might be first-come, first-serve, but we're at least on their list even if we can't get something this semester."

Jean slapped the keypad, and the email was off.

"First-come, first-serve my _ass_ ," he said. "Let's see the other guy beat four minutes from email retrieval to gig acceptance." He pushed his chair back from the table and stood, because sitting sure as hell wasn't doing anything to help keep his excitement at bay. He practically buzzed with excitement, with the realization that he had been _good_ enough, and Eren greeted him from across the table with a double high-five.

"Fuck yeah!" Eren's vulgar congratulations had the tone of someone who had fully expected the given outcome. For someone who was such a little shit, Eren sure had a lot of confidence in Jean--probably more confidence than Jean had in himself.

A few seconds later, another email hit Jean's inbox. He peered down at the screen, read the bar rep's response, and then had to sit the fuck back down. He propped his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands and _breathed_.

"Great!" the email had read. "We'll put you on our calendar for the aforementioned dates. We'll be in touch via phone within the next day or two to discuss particulars."

They had done it. They had _done_ it. They had _done it_.

Finally, after too many years of heartache and failure, Jean Kirschtein was _good enough_. He was going to perform. He would have an audience. He'd get to pour his heart out in _public_ and people would come and listen because they _wanted_ to, because they _could_. This wasn't class, where others had been forced to read his lyrics in anonymous critique. This wasn't that high school talent show where half the kids in the front row had been popular jerk-offs who were half-drunk on stolen beer and their own stupidity throughout the show. Laughs and echoing "boos" would _not_ be the last things that crawled around in the wrinkles of Jean's subconscious before there was nothing at all.

He felt Reiner lean down and sling a bulky arm across his shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Armin congratulating Marco with a hug and Eren flashing a thumbs up in that overly-theatrical way of his that Jean found so annoying if only because it was too similar to himself.

Jean could have cried.

It was past nine, now, around the time that Mikasa and Bertholdt should have been finishing up their concert. Reiner already had his phone, presumably to send the news to Bert, when Marco's own phone buzzed on the table and demanded his attention.

Jean watched him read the message, watched his face fall and his eyes hollow with fear. He watched the way Marco looked immediately to Reiner, the light touch he pressed to Reiner's arm to get his attention and the solemn way he said that they needed to talk.

Reiner's phone beeped in his hand, and he scowled. "Fuck," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

"He sent it to you, too?" Marco asked.

"Yeah. But why would Annie call him? Normally, she doesn't give a _shit_."

"Bert says she wants to talk _now_?"

"Hey," Jean interrupted with all the social grace of a hippopotamus. "What's up?" As much as he tried, it was difficult to keep the annoyance out of his tone. This was supposed to be a moment for celebration, a night to feel pride and success and--

"There's a friend of ours," Marco explained. "She just talked to Bert and she apparently needs to talk. Like, now."

Jean frowned in a way that could have been interpreted more as a pout, while Armin inquired as to whether or not everything was okay.

"I mean," Reiner said. "Not like I wanna worry ya, but Annie doesn't have a whole lotta good to say."

Jean wondered if he should come to, but Marco hadn't explicitly invited him. Hell, Marco hadn't done much of anything the past few minutes except scare the shit out of everyone.

"Hang with us tonight," Armin insisted after exchanging a meaningful look with Marco. "We'll celebrate at our place if you want. Mikasa'll be home soon and we can pick up some stuff from the corner store on the way. You guys join when you're done with stuff?"

Yeah, Jean thought more bitterly than he cared to admit. Yeah, he'd go with Armin and Eren, the people who apparently _cared_ about his success and weren't ignoring it for some weird, dramatic booty-call or whatever the hell this Annie chick wanted.

"If Bert's done, Mikasa is, too. Let's race her home," Eren suggested. "Smell ya later," he called out to Reiner and Marco, halfway out the door already. Armin was quick to follow, and Jean right behind him.

"Congrats, man," he said to Marco as an afterthought on his way out. He peered back over his shoulder a final time to see Marco's back turned, deep in conversation with Reiner and pressing his phone to his ear at the same time.

Anything Jean said to him right now would go in one ear and out the other.

Whatever, then.

_Fuck you, Marco._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really feel like Reach is starting to fill out as a story, but I want to know what you think, too! Constructive criticism, your impressions, any feedback at all is welcome--as long as it is polite, of course. I'd love to see your theories, your feelings, and your favorite parts. c:
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me this far!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to comment! You guys have showed so much interest and enthusiasm (and patience), and it's such a pleasure to read all of your thoughts and reactions.
> 
> I appreciate every one of you!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Significator](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573712) by [Lalaen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalaen/pseuds/Lalaen)
  * [Eggs and a Couple of Pancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251432) by [Emery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery)
  * [Deserving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4292280) by [Emery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery)




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